Consequences of Fission, or, Nuclear Decay
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Secrets can kill. C. Montgomery Burns deals in money (and favors), often outside the eye of the law. When a jealous rival threatens to expose one of his covert projects, his money and power might still not be enough to save his life, or that of his beloved Smithers. (Takes place after "Unfolding of Waylon Smithers," featuring some familiar OCs from that tale.)
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_**

 _This story has two titles: "_ The Consequence of Fission _" or "_ Nuclear Decay _." Both fit equally well, and in trying to decide which one, I thought back to "_ The Hobbit _" or "_ There and Back Again _."_

 _I always swore I'd never do a subtitled piece._

 _I decided to do a subtitled piece anyway._

 _I've been doing a lot of 'nevers' lately._

 _It's not a sequel to "Unfolding," though it takes place relatively soon afterward. There will be the familiar cast of OCs from that story: Thaddeus Dimas, Antoine Radson, Preston Tucci, and new faces as well. I'd like to add this story's rated M for adult themes, though nothing more explicit than what I've already shared here. I'd rather err on the side of caution when choosing ratings._

 _~ Muse_

* * *

Waylon Smithers sat down in front of his laptop in his room at Burns Manor. It was evening, the sun having just dropped behind the western edge of the estate. Memories of the past Spring and early Summer still seemed surreal, like some sort of dream. The early months had mostly slipped by without his attention. Summer lengthened, and August came to a close, bringing the faint whisper of autumn on the breeze. Through the lazy drone of night insects in the fruit trees on the grounds, there was that cautionary tang in the air, the scent of leaves getting ready to change from green to gold.

Smithers could never put his finger quite on what it was: that nondescript and sublime sensation that came even on the hottest days. Somewhere, in the distance, one of the peacocks called out into the still air. That haunting, primitive call… there was something Smithers liked about it. He found it soothing.

The peacocks were his; a little indulgence that Montgomery Burns had eventually given in to. _You ask so little_ , Burns remarked over dinner, _and this is your request? Peafowl? Absolutely not, Waylon. I can't have them running pell-mell about the grounds_. Burns shook his head.

Smithers smiled inwardly. It seemed Burns could never say no to him for long. By mid-July, Smithers had his peacocks. It wasn't that he had even badgered Burns either. He'd only asked once or twice that he remembered.

He had been sitting in his office at the Springfield nuclear power plant when Burns stalked in and said brusquely, without preamble: _Your peacocks anxiously await your attention at the manor. You'd best get home and tend to the sophistic brutes post-haste, before they make a complete mess of my gardens_.

Ah, Monty Burns, always the one with the sweet words, Smithers laughed. At least now he knew how Burns' words were designed to keep his true feelings from showing. Smithers gave Burns a wink. _I'll corral them immediately, sir_ , he replied as he packed up his bag.

Burns didn't return the wink, but his expression softened ever so slightly, eyes crinkling at their edges. _See that you do, Waylon. Now, begone with you_. He made a flipping gesture with his hand, and strode back to his office.

There was still a level of master-and-servant that they feigned at work. Smithers wasn't sure how much anyone at the plant believed the illusion these days, but neither he nor Burns had any interest in changing their public façades.

Smithers listened to the birds calling to one another in the savory night air. He stretched his arms above his head, hearing the satisfying series of cracks as he arched his back. Burns was around here somewhere, probably reading on the veranda with the hounds (and one small terrier, that seemed none-the-wiser to the hazards of sleeping under Burns' chair). Smithers got up, and padded over to the balcony. His room faced north, overlooking the back acres of the estate: the hedge maze, the gardens, the fields and rambles beyond. Beyond that, the forest lay, an inky shadow in the deepening twilight.

Sure enough, Burns was down there, pointed nose buried in a book. Of course he didn't have any light. Smithers shook his head, with loving pique. The man might have the eyes of hawk, but reading at night was sure to strain them.

Smithers grabbed his lighter off the table, and padded next door to Burns' bedroom. He lifted an oil lamp off Burns' nightstand, lit the wick, and carried it downstairs.

"You shouldn't read in the dark," he chided softly, coming up beside his beloved friend and companion. "You'll ruin your eyes."

Burns looked up.

"Bah, don't be such crepehanger, Waylon. Why, I could shoot the spots of an owl at a hundred yards under nothing but faint glow of the waning moon."

Smithers set the lamp on the table, and pulled up a chair. "That might be, Monty. But these days the spotted owl is endangered, I believe."

Burns snorted. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, and pulled the lamp closer. "There. I am now reading by your bedratted and unnecessary lamp. Is that good enough for you?"

Smithers leaned over and gave Burns a quick kiss on the cheek. "Absolutely."

Burns made a sound of annoyance, but didn't move away. "Don't get soft on me, Waylon."

Smithers stood up, pushing his chair in. "You don't need to worry about that, Monty," he replied with a smirk, and headed back upstairs to his room.

Waylon Smithers had taken his time organizing his room when he moved in. It had been a gradual process initially fraught with mixed feelings. The packing and sorting had been an emotional process, more than he would've expected. Once, many years ago, his room had been belonged to his father. After his father's death, Burns, in one of his more desolate moods had the room sealed from the main hall, leaving only a secret passage from a small linen closet. Almost everything his father owned was just as it had been decades before.

Smithers had been in that room once, one strange night, when he'd still lived across town. He'd come to the manor to tuck Burns in bed, but the older man had been irritable and preoccupied. He'd showed Smithers the room, but then quickly changed topics, as if there was still too much for him to say.

Neither man ever spoke of the secret room again.

When Smithers left Burns and Springfield for a job out east, he never expected he'd come back to find a place for himself at the manor. Burns, apparently, had other plans. He'd opened the room up, and had it made ready, even going so far as to have Smithers' belongings brought over from his apartment.

Finally, Burns had asked, more begged, Smithers to come back.

Remarkably, Smithers said yes.

The rest, as they said, was history.

Smithers ran the fingertips of his left hand over the white gold band on his right ring finger. It was the ring Burns had given him. Burns wore its mate on his own right hand.

 _Consider this a promise_ , Burns explained after Smithers had settled in to life at the manor. _Someday…_ his voice trailed off, and he looked away, eyes distant.

 _A promise?_ Smithers probed gently.

 _Damn it man, I'm not good at expressing myself_ , Burns snapped. _Yes, a promise. That I shan't ever leave you, nor send you away. That someday, I'd like to… well, when the time's right, I would like to present you with a ring just for you…_ Burns coughed and wrung his hands. _Bah! Look, Waylon, don't go anywhere, and I won't tolerate it if you try to propose to_ me _. After all I've put you through, I demand nothing less than to be able to plight my troth to you forevermore._ Burns had held up a warning finger. _Don't you dare get any silly notion in your head to take the lead in that matter. And, when the time comes, I expect nothing less than a yes._

Smithers resisted the urge to say something teasing at that moment. His mind swam with witty remarks, from daring to flirty. Eventually, he decided on something safe. _Monty, you know I'd never be able to say 'no' to you._ He gave Burns a wink.

Burns blushed, and tried to hide it. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a remark about Smithers making the moment awkward. His eyes, however, gave him away. No amount of grumbling could hide the joy that sparkled behind those blue orbs. Burns took Smithers' hands in his, and gave a squeeze, before turning on his heel and wandering off.

Smithers watched him go. That man, that dear, capricious, and unfathomable man. _Ah, could I love him more?_ Smithers thought warmly.

Apparently, Smithers realized, he could. Each day he felt his feelings deepen a bit more; not just deepen, but grow and evolve. The days he spent at the plant, he found he was able to concentrate in ways he hadn't for years. He no longer got the same nervous excitement whenever Burns walked by.

That sense of anticipation, and fear, had been replaced with satisfaction.

Smithers no longer hung on Burns' every word or gesture, hoping for a sign of affection. He didn't need to. He knew how Burns felt about him, the man had said so himself. And so, finally able to focus on his job one-hundred percent, Smithers felt peace at work he wasn't sure he'd ever known before.

After work, he and Burns would head home, sometimes in the same car, or sometimes driving separately. It didn't matter as much anymore. Smithers didn't feel rejected when Burns wanted to drive himself; and vice versa.

At night, after dinner and their evening acts had been completed, Smithers would occasionally slide into bed next to Burns, and they'd fall asleep in each others' arms. Some nights Smithers slept in his own room; and on those occasions, Burns would often join him there.

Smithers had always imagined the prospect of physical intimacy when he lived on his own. He was no stranger to amorous encounters. Especially those where very little time passed between the first meeting, and a night spent together.

It was different with Burns though; far different than he ever imagined. While he still found Burns' svelte form and aquiline features incredibly attractive, he was starting to realize there was so much more.

Perhaps it was true what Burns had accused him of: obsession, rather than love.

Well, true once upon a time that is. Smithers had never lived with someone he loved like this before. His encounters, fun, but ultimately frivolous, left him unprepared for the depth of quiet passion that came with the simple things: reading together in the study or on the veranda, drives to work in the morning, taking meals together.

Smithers hadn't realizes the deep satisfaction that could come when Burns curled up against his side at the end of a long day. Those moments, where there was nothing sexual, were at times the most intimate of all, Smithers realized. In those instants, Smithers found a connection had grown, far more intense than some mere earthly pleasure.

He remembered the first night he'd shared Burns' bed. They'd kissed, yes; and Burns traced his fingers across Smithers' bare chest in ways that left the younger man's skin sizzling with electricity. But they hadn't done more. _Not yet_ , Burns said, as he pulled Smithers' head against his own naked chest, and ran his fingers through Smithers ash-grey hair. He traced the contours of Smithers' neck with his lips and whispered, _I hope you understand._

Smithers had let his own hands run across Burns' lean-boned frame, and nodded. For the first time, in all his years, he'd finally found a man worth waiting for. To be this close, he realized, was actually enough for now. _I understand, Monty,_ he murmured, listening the long-lived heart beating so fast. Burns' heartbeat. There could be no sweeter lullaby in the world. Not even the eerily beautiful songs of his peacocks down by the forest.

 _I understand completely,_ he'd thought as he drifted off to sleep, cradled in Burns' arms. _And I wouldn't want it any other way._

So thinking, Waylon Smithers rose and prepared for bed. Monty would be up eventually when it suited him. Smithers washed up and stripped down to his trunks. He threw a soft teeshirt on, and slid under the covers. _Goodnight, Monty_ , he thought as he turned off the light.

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns read by the light of the oil lamp for a bit longer after Smithers left, then checked his watch. It was about time. He cast a furtive glance up towards the back of the manor. No sign of Smithers anywhere, and his room was dark. Good, good.

Burns got up, stretched, and tucked the book under his arm. He had a phone call he was expecting on his private line. Very few people had that number. He had a secure line in his private study, a room where even his Smithers wasn't always welcome. It was where Burns carried out his most clandestine affairs.

He let himself in, locking the door behind him, and grabbed a glass flask off a shelf by the mantle. Reflectively, he poured himself a small snifter of brandy, and sat down at his desk, awaiting the call.

He didn't have to wait long. His consociate was always right on time. The phone rang, once, and Burns snatched it up before it had a chance to ring again. "Good evening, Thaddeus," he purred.

"Ah, Monty, good evening to you," came the reply; the voice bearing the faintest hint of a Grecian accent. "I trust this day finds you well?"

Burns nodded, not that the man on the other line could see. "It does," he replied carefully.

Thaddeus Dimas, a so-called 'atom baron' of Plateau City. Many years ago, he had worked out a lucrative arrangement with Montgomery Burns, in exchange for owing the Springfield magnate a few favors. Burns had called in one to have Dimas take Smithers under his wing for several weeks. It had been necessary, but not easy. Both Burns and Smithers had learned far more about themselves than either man had planned.

"I need to move some more," Dimas started, his voice with a hint of urgency.

"How many," Burns asked.

"Four assemblies."

Burns did some quick math in his head. "About three tons?"

"Five thousand, eight hundred pounds," confirmed Dimas.

"That's rather more than usual, isn't it?"

Dimas gave a nervous chuckle. "I've had a few assemblies that I'd been sitting on for a while, you know, until things settled down."

"Should I expect trouble?" Burns asked cautiously.

Dimas gave another half-laugh. "No, no. I've already taken care of the paperwork. I just need a place, you know."

Burns knew indeed. Alas, the only unfortunate thing with nuclear energy was the spent fuel rods left over. Fortunately, he'd bought himself several dozen acres, and mineral rights, in the alkali flats west of Springfield. There, he'd set up a tenuously approved ISFSI; an independent spent fuel storage installation.

His storage site, which he referred to as "AlkaliStark," had been licensed by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, by several inspectors Burns had paid handsomely. The name was something Burns coined upon first looking over the site. _It's so barren, stark_ , he thought. And so, AlkaliStark was born. As long as no one looked to carefully, and he wasn't expecting anyone to, it was a perfect facility to dry-store the spent fuel assemblies. His below-ground site provided him a tidy source of income, and the promise of favors from a _very_ select clientele.

Thaddeus Dimas, mister "by-the-book" himself was one of Burns' biggest clients. Thaddeus hated the prospect of over-crowding his cooling ponds. He viewed the risk to be too great, regardless of what the NRC had authorized. After the attacks in New York City, the idea of re-racking his spent fuel assemblies was simply unacceptable to him.

Dimas had learned about Burns' little repository from his father. Hat in hands, Thaddeus Dimas had approached the Master of the Atom, and asked for permission to use Burns' site.

At first, naturally, Burns denied such a thing even existed. _The idea of me owning a private ISFSI?_ Burns asked, laughing. _Banish the thought, boy!_

Thaddeus had persisted, and finally Burns relented. Young Dimas knew too much. It was better for Burns to acquiesce than to risk Dimas revealing too much information to the wrong person. Burns knew the license to his storage installation was worth slightly less than the paper it was printed on.

Burns made sure to keep his repository a closely guarded secret, even from Smithers.

No; especially from Smithers. If anyone ever came after him in the dead of night, be it the Federal Government, eco-terrorists, or some foreign government, Smithers' genuine innocence of AlkaliStark might very well be the thing that saved him from a fate worse than death.

Burns wasn't entirely sure sometimes that his AlkaliStark installation wasn't some sort of secret death wish, but that was a question he tried not to ponder too often; lest it keep him up at night.

Dimas wanted to make use of Alkali for a few more fuel rod assemblies? Burns had the space. They'd done this before. Dimas would fly in with several thousand pounds of casked assemblies tucked neatly into the belly of a 737 aircraft. They'd unload at the Springfield airport, then move everything by truck to AlkaliStark.

 _How do you manage to pull this off?_ , Dimas had asked him one night as the casks were unloaded and moved into storage.

Burns gave Dimas a wicked grin, eyes glinting dangerously. _If you live long enough, eventually everyone owes you a favor… sooner or later._ Dimas had cracked his knuckles, and said nothing. He watched as the last of the casks were wheeled underground, and sealed in concrete silos.

"So," Burns purred into the phone, "when were you thinking of coming out this way?"

"I'm hoping for a date next week," Dimas replied optimistically.

Burns checked his calendar. "That would work for me." He paused and drummed his fingers on the top of his desk. "Are you bringing anyone with you?"

"Only my personal assistant," replied Dimas. "He'll be anxious if I don't bring him along. I don't need him suspecting anything."

"No one else?" Burns asked.

"Not a one," replied Dimas.

* * *

"You are _not_ going, and _that's final!_ " Thaddeus Dimas bellowed at the blue-haired man standing in front of his desk. Antoine Radson, his personal helicopter pilot had somehow gotten wind that he and his personal assistant were traveling to Springfield. Dressed as informally as ever, a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, with a pair of tennis shoes to complete the ensemble, he'd come bounding into Dimas' office, eager to be included.

Dimas had not been amused. This was supposed to be a covert trip to North Tacoma. How on earth did Antoine even find out about it?

"Aww, come on," begged Antoine. "Springfield is where Waylon lives! I haven't seen the guy in forever." He pointed over to the thin, brown haired man that stood just off Dimas' left shoulder. "He's going!"

Dimas loomed towards Antoine, broad shoulders squared, massive hands splayed across the top of his oak desk. "Of course my _personal assistant_ is going. Explain to me why I would need a helicopter pilot when I am taking a jet."

Antoine raised his hands, palms up. "You wouldn't need a pilot, but an extra set of hands might come in handy."

"For what, exactly?" demanded Dimas.

"Stuff," replied Antoine shrugging. "Things."

Dimas made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a growl. "I'm not paying for your ticket, Radson."

Antoine tilted his head, expression optimistic. "I can buy my own, sir. No problems there."

Dimas slammed his hands on the desk twice, in sheer frustration, then pushed himself up to his full height. "Fine," he relented. "You can come. But you'd better be prepared to work. This isn't some pleasure trip."

Antoine beamed, tan face lighting up. "Absolutely, sir," he agreed. "I'll give you one-hundred and ten percent. Whatever you need." He nodded his head deferentially. With that, he backed out of Dimas' office, bobbing his head as he went.

Dimas sighed, dropping his substantial bulk into his chair. He motioned his personal assistant over to him. "What am I going to do with that man, Preston?" he asked, shaking his head.

Preston Tucci pushed his glasses further up on his nose and raised his chin. "I don't know why we keep him around, Mister Dimas. The man is positively inelegant." Preston glanced at his boss. "If I may be so bold, sir, I think at times you are overly indulgent towards him."

Dimas raised a bushy eyebrow at Preston.

"Antoine may be unorthodox, but I trust him completely. He's been with me for years, and he's a blessedly fine pilot." Dimas spun his chair to face Preston fully. "Do you think it's easy to find a man of his caliber willing to work solely for one venture?" Dimas laughed dryly.

Preston pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"He's a certified instructor, Preston. I have to pay a pretty penny to keep him exclusively mine. And he's worth every cent. So don't question my decisions on what I allow, or don't allow, my employees to get away with. Is that understood?"

Preston lowered his head. "Yes, sir."

Dimas smiled. "There's a good lad. Now, make ready those travel plans; and tell the missus I'm going out of town for a few days."

Preston whipped out his stylus and jotted down some notes on his tablet. "Shall I send her any note, sir? An apology for the sudden departure, perhaps?"

Dimas dropped his chin into his palm and drummed his sausage-like fingers along his jaw. "Flowers," he replied after a moment. "Send her roses, and a note from me saying I've been called away unexpectedly."

"Roses, yes sir," Preston nodded, adding a few more instructions to his list. "Any particular color?"

Dimas shrugged. "Pick something sympathetic. Other than that, I don't have an opinion. Oh, and best make it two dozen this time. She's still mad over that last trip I took to Florida."

"Two dozen. Understood, sir."

Preston scurried off to place the order.

* * *

Preston Tucci had to admit his boss, Thaddeus Dimas seemed rather nervous as the three of them took the limo to Albany International Airport. Preston was also perplexed as to why they were flying out of Albany instead of the much closer LaGuardia airport in New York City. It seemed like a peculiar choice.

Dimas kept glancing periodically out the window at the tractor trailers that seemed to surround them on the interstate.

Preston assumed his boss was probably uncomfortable by the way they almost intentionally appeared to box their limo in. Preston shook his head and made a face. Those teamsters had no sense or respect, riding as close to a passenger car as they were. Why, it was as if those trucks were travelling with them.

Antoine, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. He was wearing a pair of broken-in blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and playing some handheld video game console. He tapped his tennis shoes on the floor absentmindedly. Preston shook his head and looked out the window, but moments later his eyes were back on Antoine. It was that blue hair, that was it; and that was all.

Antoine had taken the liberty of dying his hair, beard, even eyebrows blue some time ago, and decided to keep them that way. Usually he wore his hair down, but today he'd pinned it back in a bun. Preston scoffed. Man-buns. What an absurd style. He'd be glad when that trend died out.

Preston had no idea the man was a certified fight instructor. That had surprised him. Preston wondered what else he didn't know about Antoine. He'd never even bothered to read Antoine's file in Human Resources. Preston realized he really knew nothing about Antoine beyond the setting of work.

As they drove, Preston found himself wondering what exactly Antoine was like once he left for the day. Sure, Preston had often joined Antoine and their fellow coworkers for dinner at a nearby bar after work, but that was still a work-like atmosphere. Despite the playful teasing, everyone still wore the demeanors they carried at the plant.

Did Antoine go home at night to a quiet little apartment? Did he have a spacious house? Preston found himself wondering if Antoine had a special someone on the side. He'd never heard Antoine talk about anyone. When they'd all go out together after work, Antoine was known for checking out the girls, but Preston had never seen Antoine actually talk to any of them. He'd sit at the table, and joke with the rest of the gang, then head out alone when the evening wound down.

Preston shook his head, and pulled out his tablet to make sure the flowers had been delivered to Mister Dimas' wife. He remembered the order very clearly, except he went with three dozen long-stemmed roses in various shades ranging from yellow to pink instead of the two dozen Dimas requested. He'd also taken the liberty of adding a 'personalized' note from Dimas. _My dearest Evita, I'm sorry that I shall not be with you during this day that celebrates our marriage. I know these roses are can't make up for my absence, but rest assured, my dearest, I shall make it up to you when I return. All my love, T._

Preston glanced surreptitiously over at his boss.

It wasn't the first time Preston had sent Evita Dimas roses at her husband's request, to make up for one of his absences. It probably wouldn't be the last. Preston wondered, as he told the florist what to write in the card, at what point Evita Dimas would no longer be able to forgive.

* * *

Thaddeus Dimas leaned back in his first class seat, glad to finally be on the plane. He watched casually out the window and was finally able to relax a bit. Several flat-back cargo trucks pulled under the belly of the plane. There was a faint thump as they docked. The plane swayed slightly. He watched as his precious reactive cargo was loaded without fanfare.

It was ironic, he mused, that in these days of heightened security, it was easier to fly with his 'cargo' than it was to ship it overland. In the old days, trains or semi-trailers did the job quite nicely. These days, every tollbooth had a video camera; each passenger had a cell-phone that could record strange things on the road. No, he thought quietly, it was far better to travel by air. Quicker too. The less time on the road, the less chance of anything getting discovered.

Dimas removed his headphones and clucked his tongue. "Preston!"

Preston looked up, bright and attentive as always.

"Make sure we have transportation arrangements when we arrive in Springfield. I'm sure you do, but I want nothing less than a limousine. A large SUV would be ideal. I trust you can find such a thing?"

Preston's keen eyes twinkled. "Absolutely, Mister Dimas. I've already got reservations." He paused, a faint shadow passing behind his eyes. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"

Dimas leaned back and shook his head. "No, no." He gestured to the empty seat across the aisle. "But you can go sit over in that side for a spell. I want to put my laptop here," he explained, indicating the seat Preston was currently in.

Preston's eyes flicked from over to Antoine, then back. He hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Yes, sir." He grabbed his belongings, and vacated his seat, dropping in next to Antoine.

"Good man," said Dimas with a laugh. He tossed his laptop case up on the seat, put his headphones on, and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

_The key to anonymity is the alias, the Sparrowhawk thought silently. He, she, it, they… everything could fade once the face was concealed. The person was gone, and all that remained to be judged was action. Actions always spoke louder than words._

 _The Sparrowhawk ran a gloved hand through the mop of unnaturally colored hair, and slid a black ski-mask on. It wasn't a fancy outfit, but it was amazing what one could do with basic winter apparel as a means of concealment._

 _When Sparrowhawk had seen Thaddeus Dimas slip out of his office to a quiet spot on the edge of the grounds, the Hawk decided to follow him. Dimas had sat down on a bench under the willow trees and whipped out a cell phone the Hawk had never seen before._

 _Dressed in black, and moving like a ghost, the Hawk crept closer to listen in; pausing only when Dimas' words were clear. Dimas was talking to someone, mentioning fuel assemblies, transportation, and the town of Springfield. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots._

 _Thaddeus Dimas was shipping spent fuel assemblies to Springfield, North Tacoma. Legality aside, he'd be gone over yet another anniversary of his marriage. The Hawk's eyes narrowed, jaw clenching painfully. This would be the last time._

 _So thinking, the Hawk slid back into the shadows. It took no time to buy a ticket on a flight out west. Barely any time to pack. The Hawk would be there, with Dimas. The Hawk would address Dimas' indifference, years of marital infidelity, all the man's sins with a grim finality. Ticket in hand, there was little reason for the Hawk to turn the other cheek, and stay in Plateau City._

 _Sparrowhawk would be in Springfield. There was nothing to hold the Hawk back. It was time to finish this, once and for all._

* * *

Thaddeus Dimas watched as the massive cargo carriers were unloaded from the jet, and transported to the waiting semi-trailers at the edge of the Springfield airport. He checked his watch. It was mid-day already. There wouldn't be enough time tonight to get everything over to Burns' installation in the alkali flats.

He, Preston, and Antoine deplaned. Preston was immediately on his cell phone, making arrangements for the car to be brought around. Dimas listened in. It would be, just as they'd discussed, an SUV limousine. A black Cadillac. It was being delivered to the executive lot. Preston hung up and approached with all the proper respect.

"Mister Dimas, sir, with your permission, I can get the car and bring it to the baggage claim. I'm sure Antoine can assist in the matters of carrying our luggage."

Dimas nodded. "Very well. Get on with it then."

Preston picked up his pace, long legs moving gracefully. He slipped through the crowd like smoke, and was soon out of sight.

Dimas felt eyes on him, and looked up from his phone. Antoine was watching him, expression unreadable. "Carrying luggage," Dimas remarked, with a chortle. "Sounds like you will be making yourself useful after all, Radson. Just don't expect me to pay you extra for this."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir," Antoine replied softly. "I don't think I'm being paid to be here anyhow," he muttered softly, but loud enough for Dimas to hear.

"Oh Antoine," Dimas said with a smile, "I'm sure you'll find this trip worthwhile. At the very least, you'll be seeing your friend Waylon again, and you'll be able to keep yourself busy helping Preston with his tasks."

Antoine licked his lips thoughtfully, but said nothing. Dimas was fine with that.

Thaddeus Dimas' mind was on his precious cargo. He hated to let it out of his eyesight for very long. The idea of anything happening to it rested heavily on his mind. Dimas' thoughts were interrupted by Antoine saying something.

"Eh, what was that?" Dimas asked, trying to mask his annoyance behind a toothy grin.

"If you'd like to wait at the lounge a minute, I can go ahead, gather our bags, and have them loaded once Preston gets here. That way, sir, you wouldn't have to stand down there waiting while everything gets off the plane and into the car."

Ah, Antoine, always the thoughtful one. Dimas nodded approvingly. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. I'll be in the executive lounge. Call me when you two are ready."

Antoine nodded. "Yes, sir!" He dropped his head down, and rushed through the crowd. Dimas watched him go. He didn't have Preston's smooth grace, but he too soon vanished into the throng of travelers.

* * *

 _The Sparrowhawk watched as the fuel assemblies in their non-descript rectangular casks were fork-lifted into the semi-trailers waiting at the end of the airfield. In the Hawk's pocket was a small, non-descript device. A tracking device. The Hawk didn't know for certain where the trucks would go, but didn't want to risk losing them._

 _So thinking, the Hawk slid up under one of the trailers, and deftly fastened the device to the underside of the cargo box, hiding it well. There, the Hawk thought smugly. That was easy. Now, to get out of sight before TSA noticed anything suspicious._

 _The Hawk wrapped the jacket closer, hunched down, and made haste back to the airport. It was time to secure a vehicle._

* * *

Preston Tucci pulled the Escalade around. It wasn't a stretched limo, but it was a modified vehicle, the middle a luxurious passenger section with a tinted window that separated it from the front of the vehicle. Preston climbed out and opened the cargo hold. Antoine sighed and grabbed an armload of suitcases. "Do you really have to pack every suit you own, Preppy?" he muttered.

Preston gave a slight smirk. "Those are all Mister Dimas' bags." He pointed to a single rolling suitcase. "That one's mine." He stepped back and watched Antoine haul Dimas' suitcases to the curb. "I'd ask if you need help with that…" Preston began slowly.

Antoine raised his eyes. "I lug a seventy-five pound toolbox around. I think I can handle a few suitcases. Thanks for thinking of me though."

Preston smiled. "No problem." Preston's face grew momentarily distracted. "Where is Mister Dimas anyhow?"

Antoine shoved the last of the bags into the cargo hold and shut the rear hatch. "He's waiting in the executive lounge, figured it would be more comfortable than a bench next to the baggage carousel. I told him I'd call him once everything was ready."

"I'll take care of that," Preston replied haughtily. He pulled out his phone as Antoine slouched into the front passenger seat.

Moments later, Dimas arrived, a tall coffee in one hand, cell phone in the other. Preston held the door for him, and gave a slight bow as his boss passed. "I hope everything is to your liking, sir," he remarked. "If there's anything I can get for you, or any place you need to stop, please let me know."

Dimas shook his head as he climbed in. "I'm fine, Preston. Take us to the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. I trust you know the way."

Preston beamed. "I have the directions already programmed into the GPS, sir!"

"Good," replied Dimas curtly. "Let's get moving then." He glanced around quickly, almost apprehensively, Preston thought.

"Is something amiss, Mister Dimas?"

Dimas lips curled upwards, in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No, Preston. Everything's fine. Now, will you kindly get us on the road."

Preston curled his lanky frame submissively. "Yes sir! Right away, sir!" He closed Dimas' door, and hurried into the driver's seat. He checked the onboard GPS, then put the car in drive and started off. Dimas had already rolled up the privacy window, blocking out any noise from the passenger compartment. Had he not, Preston and Antoine would've seen him take out his phone, hear him make a call inquiring on the whereabouts of three tractor trailers he wanted a visual of.

Preston always enjoyed driving. There was something soothing about it. He reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a small MP3 player.

"Antoine, please do me a favor and plug this in."

Antoine raised an eyebrow and gave Preston a slightly grumpy look. "Aww… what?" he protested. "I don't want to listen to your music, Preppy."

Preston gave Antoine a condescending look. "What's the rule?"

Antoine sighed and muttered something under his breath.

"Sorry, what was that?"

Antoine groaned. "Driver choses the music…"

"… And?"

"… And the passenger shuts his smart-ass mouth."

Preston smiled. "That's right. Glad you remembered." He handed the MP3 player to Antoine who sulkily plugged it in. Preston selected an album. Upbeat pop music started pouring through the front speakers. Preston immediately started singing along.

"'Hmmm, who think you're calling stupid-'" he pointed at Antoine, "-stupid?"

Antoine gave him a shifty look.

" 'Well you think you'll try to prove it? Prove it!" He swayed his body in time with the music. "'Ooo, you think you're really such a slick rick runner? Keep on talking, you'll be a goner.'"

Antoine sunk deeper into his seat, and covered his eyes with exaggerated chagrin. "Adam Lambert?" he asked, peeking through his fingers.

Preston, nodded, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"… Again? _Still!?_ "

"'You wanna have a go? Who you calling clown?'" Preston gave Antoine a wink and turned his focus back to matching the lyrics word-for-word.

Antoine rubbed his temples, looked out the window. He figured this must be some sort of payback for all the times he'd pumped _The Beach Boys_ through Preston's headphones in the chopper.

* * *

C. Montgomery Burns listened intently as Thaddeus Dimas gave him a rough timetable. They'd be at the nuclear plant in less than an hour, and the semi-trailers were close behind. Burns glanced at his clock. That didn't leave much time, he mused, to get everything delivered to the AlkaliStark Installation and back before nightfall.

He glanced across the hall to Smithers' office. Smithers was out at the moment, probably doing a walkthrough of the plant. Ever since he'd gotten back from Plateau City, he'd been much more aggressive about whipping the employees into line. Preventative maintenance, necessary repairs. Burns objected to the cost, but Smithers had insisted.

Secretly, Burns liked the way Smithers had taken to standing up to him from time to time. Burns also had to admit the plant hadn't looked this good in years. While there was still a great deal of work ahead, he had no doubt Smithers could bring the plant up to a standard that would've made his father proud.

Burns flipped on the surveillance monitors. Just as he thought, Smithers was down in the turbine room, overseeing some procedure with Generator Two. That proud stance, that hands-on-hips posture! Smithers had grabbed the bull by the proverbial horns and wasn't backing down.

Burns heart gave a little leap in his chest. He leaned his chin in his palm, and watched the soundless scene play out. At one point, Smithers actually took off his blazer, and gestured for the ignorant oafs to move out of the way. Smithers rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a large open-ended wrench, and demonstrated how he wanted the bolts tightened down.

One of the employees must've said something stupid, Burns figured. Smithers immediately straightened up, and made a threatening gesture with the wrench. For a split second, it looked like he might throw it. Burns was at the edge of his seat, watching.

The random peon Smithers was focused on held his hands up in a surrendering gesture. Smithers' said something, then thrust the wrench at the man, and pointed emphatically at the bolt. Burns didn't need to hear what Smithers said. His indication was perfectly clear: _Yes, both bolts!_

The man nodded, and started hastily fastening them down.

Smithers grabbed his blazer, and walked out of the frame.

Burns toggled through several of the cameras until he located Smithers again. He reached over, and flicked on the PA System. "Waylon Smithers to my office, immediately." He watched Smithers' head snap up and look towards the camera. Smithers gave a nod, and picked up his pace.

A few minutes later, the double door to Burns' spacious office opened, and Smithers walked in. Out of habit, he closed the doors behind him, and came to stand in front of Burns' desk. "You wanted to see me, Monty?"

Burns tented his fingers. He gestured to a chair, and Smithers sat down.

"I did, Smithers. Firstly, I loved the way you handled that luddite down by the generators. Beautifully done. I'll admit I was rather hoping you'd throw that wrench at him; but it was a good snow nonetheless." Burns shrugged.

"Is that what you needed to see me for?"

Burns shook his head, regarding the younger man thoughtfully. "No, no. I wanted to inform you that we're expecting an unusual delivery today; and some distinguished guests."

Smithers bit his lip nervously. "Do we have an inspection coming up? Because if we do, I didn't get the memo…"

"Pah, no. I've managed to stave off that botheration for at least another month." Burns chewed absent-mindedly on his thumbnail, then snapped his fingers. "Tell me, have you heard from your chums back in Plateau City recently?"

Smithers gave a tilt of his head. "Well, I am friends with them on social media," he admitted. "But we don't talk much; no."

"I see." Burns rubbed his hands together. "Well, I thought you should know Thaddeus Dimas and his associate Preston Tucci are coming here; and they'll be supervising the delivery."

"What delivery is that, sir?" Smithers regarded Burns with curiosity.

"Nothing that's important right now. But I need you to make space for three tractor trailers to arrive here this afternoon. Tell the employees to clear out Parking Lot D. If they don't, tell them we'll have their cars towed and crushed."

"That seems a little extreme."

Burns made a dismissive gesture. "They can always buy more cars, right? Or a good horse."

"Right…" Smithers remarked, unconvinced.

"I've offered to put Thaddeus and his assistant up in the manor tonight. Everything's being prepared as we speak. Two guest rooms; and the chef will be making a splendid dinner. This is our chance to show off, Waylon. Let him see how we really live."

"Sitting around in leisure robes after dinner?" Smithers thought aloud.

Burns shook his head. "God no, Smithers. Extravagantly! Proudly! My dear boy, what else could you possibly be thinking of?"

Smithers' cheeks reddened, and he tried not to smile.

Burns gave a sharp bark of a laugh. "Ah, of course you would think that." He drummed his fingers on his desk. "Well, think what you may, and enjoy it; but tonight, we have to put on the Ritz for our guests. I want your head focused on the task at hand."

Smithers eyes twinkled, and Burns had a feeling he'd just said something Smithers found amusing. Early on, he'd decided it was pointless trying to avoid saying things Smithers could make into an innuendo. That man could put a racy spin on anything, Burns decided. He wasn't sure if he found this trait endearing or aggravating. Sometimes the line between the two seemed very narrow indeed.

* * *

A black Cadillac Escalade, followed by three tractor trailers rolled up to the guard house at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. Preston leaned over and handed Dimas' paperwork to the guard. "Mister Burns is expecting us," he said.

The guard read everything, which wasn't much, and nodded. Burns had a tendency to provide only the bare-bones of information when it came to deciding who he wanted to grant access to or not. The guard had been told to expect them.

"You can park by the main complex," she said, gesturing towards the office building.

Preston put the Escalade in gear, and drove in the direction she indicated while the trucks waited.

The guard walked slowly down the line of idling diesel tractors, checking license plates and cargo manifests for each one. The manifests were simple, merely saying "supplies," and no further details. She checked the drivers' identification against what Burns had sent over to her.

Everything appeared on the level. She informed them where to park, and gestured to a recently cleared employee parking lot at the north-west end of the complex. The unmarked trucks rumbled through the open gate, swung 'round, and parked in a line. The drivers climbed into a waiting white van, which would take them to a nearby hotel.

The van was driven by one of Burns' men. There were three security guards in the van with the drivers, to make sure no one got into trouble over the night. Burns had done this before. He knew the men, but he didn't take chances.

The guard let the van out, then secured the gate. Just business as usual at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant.

* * *

Thaddeus Dimas didn't bother knocking. He threw the doors to Burns' office open and strolled in, arms spread wide.

"Monty Burns! So good to see you again!" He threw his tree-trunk arms around Burns in a firm bear hug. Burns made a squeaking sound.

"Oh, sorry," Dimas said, releasing his grip. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Just my ribs creaking, t'is all," Burns replied with a rough gasp. "So, you and your Preston, eh?"

A flicker of apprehension flashed across Dimas face. "Well, mostly," he replied hesitantly.

"What do you mean, 'mostly,'" Burns hissed, peering around Dimas' broad shoulder.

That blue-haired man was there beside Preston. He gave Burns a friendly smile.

Burns narrowed his eyes, put an arm in a less-than-friendly way around Dimas, and guided him out of the office onto the balcony. Burns slid the door shut, then gestured back to the office. "Thaddeus… what in the blazes of hell is _that_ doing here?"

Dimas shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Antoine? He's my pilot-"

"-I thought he flew helicopters," Burns observed icily.

"He did. Does. He somehow cottoned on the fact that we were headed out this way, and insisted on coming along to visit Waylon."

Burns' claw-like hand and thin fingers sunk painfully deep into Dimas' shoulder.

"Really," Burns remarked. It wasn't a question. He squeezed tighter. "And do you think, Tad, _old friend_ , that you might have single-handedly jeopardized my entire operation with your… _indiscretion?_ "

Dimas took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. "Whatever Antoine sees, you can trust him explicitly." Dimas glanced over his shoulder. Preston and Antoine were watching the surveillance monitors like kids in front of a television.

"I trust that man with all my secrets, Monty. He's one of the few people in this world that I do. Whatever you think, I have complete faith in his ability to keep his mouth shut about everything."

Burns' lips drew back in a predatory snarl. "I hope, for both your sakes, Tad, that's true." He gave Dimas one last dagger-like squeeze, then dismissed the man, and went inside.

Antoine glanced over as the two tycoons walked in. "Hey, I was wondering, when will we get to see Waylon? Preston and I have been looking forward to catching up with him, haven't we, Preppy?" He gave Preston a jab with an elbow.

Preston stepped away and regarded Antoine loftily. "First, I'll thank you not to touch me again. Secondly," he turned his attention to Dimas and Burns, "yes, I wouldn't mind saying 'hi' to Mister Smithers, when he becomes available."

Antoine snorted.

Preston shot him a withering glance.

Dimas clapped his hands together loudly and gave both men a stern look. It was the sort of expression that could make dogs stop fighting without the need to utter a single word.

Antoine hung his head, chastised. "I'll be in the car," he muttered, and slunk off.

* * *

That night, Burns Manor knew a fullness that it hadn't in years. Laughter, wine, false airs of importance interspaced with raucous laughter. It was as if the very building itself seemed happy for the company. Burns gave Dimas the full tour. Smithers, Antoine and Preston gallivanted about the estate in that lively way of the young.

While Dimas and Burns tried to one-up each other with stories over brandy and cigars, "the boys" turned Smithers tour into an impromptu pool party after Antoine "accidentally" shoved Preston over the edge, into the water.

Sopping and angry Preston yelled something about his phone being ruined.

Antoine leaned over and pointed out Preston's model was technically waterproof.

"Is yours?" Preston yelled back, grabbing Antoine by the lapels and hauling him in, head-first.

Antoine surfaced, coughing but grinning. "As a matter of fact, yes," he replied. He splashed water in Preston's face. Preston, a paragon of maturity, splashed him back. Things probably would've escalated along that thread if Smithers hadn't solved it all with a cannon-ball dive into the deep end.

For once in a rare moment, everything seemed normal… seemed happy in all their worlds.

The various festivities lasted long into the night. Eventually, everyone retired for the night: Smithers and Burns to their respective room (separate rooms for appearances tonight). Dimas made his way to his guest room down the hall. There was a second room that had been initially set up for Preston, but with the addition of Antoine, a second bed had been made. The two would have their own room at the far end of the residential wing, away from Dimas, Smithers, and Burns.

* * *

 _Normal was a relative term. Sparrowhawk knew this all too well. What the Hawk considered normal was hardly the playful rollicking at Burns Manor. The Hawk made calls on a disposable cell phone, and approached the nuclear plant under the cover of darkness. That little tracking device served its purpose well._

 _As the Hawk approached the electrified outer fence around the plant, a figure emerged from the shadows. The Hawk recoiled, drawing a small knife from a boot holster. Then the Hawk sighed. "You…"_

 _The shadow nodded. A second rare bird, who went by the name of Falcon._

 _Falcon and Hawk surveyed the scene. It took both of them mere minutes to ground out a section of the electrified outer fence, and climb over. They half-ran, half-crouched to the parked tractor trailers. Falcon paused, fishing a set of lock picks out of a pocket._

 _"Hang on," Falcon whispered, sliding around to the rear of one truck. The trailers were standard "box" trailers, enclosed on all sides. This one was different though. It had a small access opening, a door about twelve inches by eight. It was far too small for anyone to wriggle through, but that wasn't Falcon's intent._

 _Falcon deftly picked the pad-lock securing the rear doors, and opened one, motioning Sparrowhawk inside._

 _The shielded rectangular cask sat, an ominous silver-grey shape against a deeper shadow. "Is it safe?" whispered Sparrowhawk, glancing over nervously._

 _Falcon shrugged. "As safe as it can be." Falcon opened the tiny door, then climbed up into the trailer, pulling the main doors shut._

 _"What are you doing?" whispered Sparrowhawk._

 _"Watch and learn," replied Falcon._

 _Falcon took out the pad lock from a pocket, reached carefully through the little access door, and slipped the bar of the lock through the bolts. There was a click as the lock fastened around the door. "They'll never know by looking," Falcon muttered, pulling the access door shut. "They'll never know we're here. And by the time they find out, it will be too late." Falcon chuckled quietly, malevolently._

 _Seconds later, Sparrowhawk joined in; the two hushed voices blending together in a snickering, macabre duet._


	3. Chapter 3

Charles Montgomery Burns awoke to the familiar sensation of Smithers' arms around him. Sometimes in the night Smithers would slip out of his room and padded next door to Burns bedchamber. This was one of those nights.

Burns felt the warmth of Smithers' chest and flat abs press against the curve of his own bony spine. Smithers' left arm wrapped around Burns' waist, tucking against his stomach. Smithers' right arm slid under Burns' pillow.

Burns didn't move. Smithers was packed around him; Smithers couldn't be any closer if he tried.

Well, Burns reconsidered, there was _one_ way Smithers could be closer. Burns mentally shook that thought from his head. The idea of _that_ level of intimacy with Smithers was terrifying. It was not, he knew because of Smithers gender. In his long life, Burns had known the pleasures of both women, _and_ _men_ over the years. The hedonistic pursuit of whomever captured his fancy was not unfamiliar to him.

No. It was not the fact that Smithers was a man which put him off, it was the fact that the _man_ in question was _Smithers_. Burns had experienced many impassioned conquests, fleeting encounters that lasted a night or several weeks, but were never intended to amount to anything. It was easy to have a casual, emotionless encounter.

Throughout his life, there were only two people Burns had ever truly loved. Both were dead. This had left a significant impact on him, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Burns relented and leaned into Smithers' embrace. He wrapped his fingers around Smithers' wrist. He pulled Smithers' arms tighter around his body. He loved Smithers, genuinely and unquestionably. And that was terrifying.

Unbidden, Burns' mind wandered to the tractor trailers of spent fuel sitting back at the plant. This was not the first time he'd moved assemblies to his AlkaliStark Installation since Smithers had worked for him, but he'd always kept such actions a secret. It was easy then. Order Smithers to go home, say something hurtful, do whatever it took to get Smithers out of his way for a few hours.

Burns couldn't do that now. There was no way he could keep this secret, now that Smithers lived with him. Sooner or later, Smithers would find out. Burns tightened his grip on Smithers' arm. How would the younger man take it, he wondered. Would it be better to let him find out? Try to keep hiding it? Tell him?

After Smithers returned from Plateau City, Burns had promised he'd stop hiding things. That was easier to say than to do. Keeping secrets was second nature to him. Alas, Smithers was clever. He'd suspect something sooner or later. In all his years, he'd never asked where the spent fuel from the Springfield plant went. Having seen more of the world, Burns doubted Smithers would remain complacent for long.

To inform Smithers could place his life in danger. To keep it a secret risked breaking Smithers' trust. Hadn't they been through enough lately, Burns wondered.

Burns ran his fingers along Smithers' strong forearms. The younger man worked out each morning. Burns never even knew that until Smithers moved in. How strange, Burns thought, to think he had figured Smithers out so completely, only to learn there was still much he hadn't known. Burns' fingers continued their absentminded caress. _I could give him a lifetime, and Smithers would still surprise me_. Burns exhaled softly. _Do I tell him?_

Smithers' gentle tenor voice interrupted his quiet debate. "You're not asleep, are you." It wasn't a question.

Burns shifted slightly, hips moving against Smithers thighs. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Smithers drew Burns even closer, and draped a foot over the older man's ankles. "Well," he whispered, "for one you're talking to me. And two, I can tell when something's on your mind." Smithers paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Burns tried to pull away. "Absolutely not."

"Really?"

"Verily."

Smithers started to release his embrace. "Well, if that's the case, then I guess I'll just go back to my room."

Burns clasped his hand. "No. Stay." _Don't leave me._

Smithers gave a soft snort. "So there is something," he murmured. He gently ran his fingers through Burns' hair.

"No… yes."

"What is it?"

Between Smithers' gentle prying, and the way his hands moved, Burns found his resolve weakening. "What if I told you," he began slowly, "that there's a secret I've been keeping from you."

Smithers' hands stopped their movement. No doubt the lad was imagining every manner of worst-case scenario. Smithers was good at that. His mind always seemed to go that route. _Probably worried I'm going to tell him I'm dying_ , Burns thought pensively.

Smithers waited for the older man to continue.

Burns became acutely aware that Smithers was holding his breath.

"Breath man," Burns prompted. "I'm not going to drop dead, if that's what you're fretting about. I have no intention of leaving you any time soon."

Smithers took a deep breath of relief. His hands resumed their hypnotic motion.

"There is, however, something that I've kept secret from you for many years. Something I'd never planned to tell you about." Burns paused. "You know of the barrens beyond Springfield? The stark wastelands and the alkali flats?"

Smithers nodded. Burns felt the motion against his back.

"Well, decades ago, I secured myself a small parcel of desolate land, only a few hundred acres, and the mineral rights thereof. I own the land, and the earth beneath it. I wasn't sure what I'd use it for, but the Cold War had everyone on edge. I figured a private bunker in which to pass a nuclear disaster wasn't the worst investment a man of my stature could make."

Burns paused, remembering.

"Well, the Iron Curtain was pulled back, eh? No more need for bunkers and bomb shelters. But what then? Well, I got myself some licenses from the NRC, and established a private repository for the spent fuel rods from the plant." Burns stretched and rolled over so he was facing Smithers. He could see the younger man's face, drawn and thoughtful in the dim light. Without thinking, Burns reached out and ran his hand along Smithers' jawline. There was something about that beautiful profile, Burns thought, looking into Smithers' eyes. The young man was a masterpiece in every sense of the word.

"So, my dear, for the past several decades I've been warehousing spent fuel assemblies in concrete silos underground. I realized I wasn't filling the space very quickly. It seemed such a waste, so I made arrangements with a few other trusted individuals, allowing them to store their spent fuel at my installation as well. Alas, old age and radiation poisoning have claimed most of that clan."

Burns tried to act indifferent to that. He'd outlived so many. "Old Lukas Dimas, Thaddeus' father, he knew about AlkaliStark. He must've let something slip to Tad, because one day Thaddeus is at my doorstep, beseeching me to take his assemblies off his hands."

Burns repositioned himself slightly, and drew the covers up around his neck. "I told Thaddeus no such thing existed, but he didn't believe me. He already knew too much. Ultimately, it was the more prudent act to bring him into the fold. Once his culpability was on par with mine, it would be easy to keep him quiet. If I said 'no,' he might've protested vociferously, to the wrong ears. That was a risk I was naturally unwilling to take." He fell silent, regarding Smithers thoughtfully.

Smithers drew his knees up and bunched one of Burns' pillows under his head.

"So you've had a bomb shelter full of nuclear waste out in the desert all these years?"

Burns shrugged in agreement.

Smithers ran a hand over his face. "I can see why you didn't tell me. Monty, this is a huge liability."

"I am aware of that; which is why I didn't tell you."

"Come again?"

"Plausible deniability, Waylon." Burns clucked his tongue. "I wasn't about to have your head on the chopping block if anyone came for me. Though you might not believe it, I wouldn't want to see you hanged for my crimes."

"Well that's a waste now, isn't it," Smithers muttered sulkily.

Burns slid closer, resting his forehead against Smithers. "No, my boy. Don't let this perturb you. Everything has been licensed, and the ledgers carefully fudged for years. Why, it would take decades to sort it out. The NRC doesn't have the time or money to spend on such an endeavor. You're not the only one who knows how to stall bureaucracy, dear lad."

He moved to kiss Smithers forehead, but Smithers raised his face, catching Burns' lips with his own. Burns laughed gently, and ran a thumb over Smithers' mouth. In the dim light, he saw his own lust reflected in Smithers' eyes. He ran his hands down along Smithers shoulders, across his chest, and finally let them settle on Smithers' waist.

Smithers shuddered delightfully, and splayed his palms on Burns lean chest.

 _Youth is the wine that gets old men drunk_. Burns had heard that somewhere. Perhaps he'd even said it himself. He couldn't remember. He wanted so badly to take Smithers, slowly and passionately, in so many ways.

Smithers' breath was quicker, his body quivering. Burns traced small circles on Smithers' hips with his thumbs, his mind wandering into a realm of possibilities. There was so much he'd experienced in life, but he hadn't experienced it with Smithers. That made it feel new. It was delightful, and terrifying. What if he disappointed Smithers?

He felt Smithers trembling under his hands, shivering with anticipation (or perhaps even fear). Ever-hopeful and submissive Smithers who craved his touch like a drowning man grasps for a life raft. Desperate, yet patient all in one.

 _Ah, Waylon, if only you knew how much I wanted…_ Burns pulled himself up to Smithers, and tucked his head down against Smithers' chest. Smithers wrapped his arms around Burns body. Smithers always knew just how firm to hold him, Burns reflected. Not too lose, but not constricting either. It was perfect, Burns thought, closing his eyes.

"You know, however inelegantly I may express it, that I love you; do you not?" Burns asked softly, into Smithers arms.

He felt the firm embrace tighten slightly. Smithers nodded. "The feeling is more than mutual, sir."

Burns smiled at their little joke. Ah, the luring overtones a simple word like _sir_ could take on. It made their days at work resplendent in subtle indications. A way to allude to their intimate moments, and yet reveal nothing. Burns found it, in a word, excellent.

* * *

Burns woke to an empty bed. Sometime during the night, Smithers must've got up and slipped back to his room. No matter, Burns thought as he sat up and stretched. It would hardly do have Dimas catch Smithers coming out of the master suite wearing nothing but sleepwear. Burns preferred to keep the implications limited to suggesting he and Smithers had a chummy relationship as confirmed bachelors; and nothing more.

It wasn't that he was ashamed of Smithers, or who he was; but certain circles that they ran in tended to be old-fashioned in values. Burns hardly felt the need to advertise the fact that he had found such companionship in the arms of another man.

At times he envied Smithers' youth. The man had grown up in an era where such love was much more openly accepted. Most of Smithers peers would think nothing of two men sharing one life together.

Burns got up, went through his morning routine and was preparing to head down to breakfast when there came a knock at his door. Rolling his eyes at the intrusion, he opened the door. "Tad…"

Dimas beamed at him. "Good morning, Monty! I hope I didn't wake you."

Burns shook his head. "No, I've been up for quite some time."

Dimas rubbed his hands together. "Good good. I was hoping to get an early start on the day."

Burns nodded. "I'll have the chef prepare a light breakfast. Is there anything particular you want?" he asked as he grabbed his green suitcoat off a rack by the door.

Dimas shook his head. "No; no. I'm not really a breakfast person. More a dinner man myself." He patted his thick midsection with his bear-paw of a hand.

Burns held up a hand. "Wait a moment." He paused at Smithers' room and rapped on the door lightly. There was no answer, which was odd. Generally Smithers was up by this hour. Burns knocked again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Burns grasped the knob in his hand and turned. The door was unlocked, and it swung inward silently.

Smithers' room was just as it had been, balcony doors open to permit the breeze. The bed was rumpled, sheets bunched up in clear evidence that Smithers had slept there the night before. Aside from the sounds of the dawn birds, and the peacocks greeting the rising sun, there was nothing.

"Smithers?" Burns called, moving into the room.

The door to the bathroom was ajar. No Smithers.

Burns made his way to the balcony and looked down.

Everything seemed to be in order, except Smithers was missing. This never happened. Where the devil was he? Burns whirled about quickly, a flash of accusation passing over his features as he regarded Dimas. "Thaddeus, have you seen him?"

Dimas held up his hands innocently. "Monty, not since last night."

"Smithers doesn't just 'disappear,'" Burns growled.

"I swear I have no idea where he's at. Come on Monty, let's go down to breakfast. Perhaps he'll show up there."

Burns made a snarling sound, giving the empty room one more scornful glance, before following Dimas downstairs.

Thaddeus Dimas had been to the manor before. He didn't know every nook and cranny like Burns did, but he could make his way around without getting lost. Burns flagged down a servant as they made their way to the dining room. "You," he barked, "take an inventory of the vehicles. Let me know if a single automobile is missing."

The servant bowed, and hastened off.

Dimas watched the woman go.

"You don't keep many people here," he remarked.

"Oh, I actually have a full complement," Burn replied with a shrug, "but I prefer they keep out of sight. I like believing that this is my fortress of solitude, if you will. I don't enjoy being reminded it may be otherwise."

They entered the expansive formal dining room, and sat down at the table. Moments later, a hot meal was brought out: crepes, and a fruit plate with various melons and berries. Coffee too, black and aromatic. A small pitcher of cream, and a dish of sugar cubes completed the arrangement.

Despite his claims to not take breakfast, Dimas wasted no time digging in like an animal.

Burns' mind was elsewhere. It wasn't like Smithers to miss their breakfast.

He was still worrying that fact when the woman returned. "Mister Smithers' Porsche just pulled up the main drive," she announced. "He's on his way up now."

Burns cracked his fingers, and tried to look calm. "Thank you, Myrtle. Have him join us for breakfast immediately." Burns paused. Something had just occurred to him

The woman turned to leave, but Burns held up a hand. "Myrtle, was there a black SUV in the garage? It would've been a Cadillac Escalade, an extra-long one."

Myrtle shook her head. "No, sir. There was your full inventory, minus Mister Smithers' car; but that car you mention was not there."

Burns tented his fingers. "I see." He shot Dimas a dangerous look. "Thank you Myrtle. You are excused."

The woman left, pulling the doors shut behind her.

"So…" Burns began ominously. "Completely trustworthy, eh?"

Dimas face paled. "I swear, Monty, I have no idea what's going on."

Burns narrowed his eyes. "Hmm, we'll see about that."

The doors to the dining room swung open, and Smithers walked in, hair windblown and unkept. He was running his fingers over it, trying to smooth down the longer parts. His blazer was unbuttoned, and he wasn't wearing his bowtie.

Smithers took a seat next to Burns, and motioned for his food to be brought out.

"Good morning, Smithers." Burns gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We were worried you'd miss breakfast."

Smithers removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with his shirt. "No, sir. I'm here. I just went out to go see where Preston and Antoine had gotten off to."

Dimas leaned forward in his seat, thin lines of perspiration beginning to show along his face. "And," he asked, tugging at his collar, "did you find them?"

Smithers nodded. "They're about five minutes behind me on the road. Apparently Antoine's an early riser. Combine that with the time-zone change, and they were both up before anyone else." Smithers cut a piece of his crepe with the side of his fork, and chewed thoughtfully. He took a sip of coffee, then continued. "They drove up to the lake before sunrise, then tried to come back, but couldn't get in the gate."

Dimas dabbed his face with his napkin. "Eh, why is that, exactly?"

Smithers regarded him coolly. "Well, we can set it to open automatically or not at all. We can also set it to in-only, or out-only." He took another sip of his coffee. "It's set to allow vehicles to exit without issue, so we don't have to buzz deliveries out. Antoine and Preston were able to leave, but they couldn't get back in. They didn't know where else to go, and I had my phone off. I woke up to a voicemail that they were at the nuclear plant. So I went to bring them back. I gave them one of the spare remotes for the gate."

"Why there?" Dimas croaked.

Smithers and Burns exchanged nonplussed expressions. "It's Wednesday. They knew we'd be there eventually."

The door swung open. "Oh, speaking of the devil…"

Antoine trotted into the room, grinning from ear to ear. "Good morning!" he said cheerfully, pulling out a chair and flopping down into it. "Wonderful day to be alive, eh?" He dropped a huge spoonful of fruit on his plate, and started eating like a starving man.

Preston followed slowly behind, a positively hangdog air about him. He hung his head, and slid into a chair on the other side of Dimas. He didn't raise his head to meet anyone's eyes. "Preston," Dimas coaxed, "is there something you're not telling us?"

Preston looked up, soft eyes darting nervously, guiltily around the table. A plate of crepes was slid before him. He didn't even seem to notice. "I, uh…" he hesitated.

Dimas and Burns leaned forward in unison.

Smithers paused, setting his fork on his plate.

There was a moment of suspended time. No one moved. Even Antoine had taken notice of the tension. He swallowed mightily, and glanced about apprehensively.

Preston looked like he was trying to sink under the table.

Antoine coughed, clearing his throat. "Eh, that was all me," he said, sliding his plate away and resting his hands on the table. "It wasn't his idea."

"What," Dimas rumbled softly. "What wasn't his idea."

"Taking the car for a morning drive."

All eyes were now on Antoine. "I woke up around three this morning. I mean, I usually get up early, but that would be what, six am? Seven back home?" He drummed his hands on his knee. "I wanted to go out for a drive, you know. Just get familiar with the lay of the land, see some sights. I don't know." Antoine gestured with a thumb in Preston's direction. "He woke up when he found me going through his stuff for the keys. He said he was the only one authorized to drive the car, and there was no way I was taking it without him."

Burns, Smithers, and Dimas watched silently.

"So…" Dimas prodded, making a "go on" gesture with his hand.

Antoine sighed. "So, I might've coerced Preston into taking the car."

Preston looked up. "It wasn't coercion, exactly. But after an hour of him being awake and pacing around, I knew I wouldn't be getting back to sleep. Finally, I told him we'd just take a quick drive, to the lake and back before anyone woke up. I never thought about getting locked out. It wasn't till we got back that I realized what happened."

Antoine nodded.

Preston looked over at Dimas. "I didn't want to bother you, sir, naturally; so I called Waylon's cell to see if he could let us in."

"-But he didn't pick up," added Antoine.

"We waited by the gate for a while, but then a cop car drove by. He drove by a second time, very slowly. I knew how suspicious it must look, a black truck with tinted windows sitting outside your gate-"

"So we drove up to the nuclear plant, showed the guard our ID badges, and parked in the executive lot."

Smithers spoke up. "When I awoke, I saw a missed call. I listened to their voicemail, then grabbed a spare gate opener from the garage, and went to go meet them. Then we drove back here." He gave a shrug. What more, really, was there to say?

"And that's all you did," Dimas asked carefully.

Antoine and Preston nodded. "Yes, sir."

Burns nonchalantly speared a berry with his fork. "I'm sure, Thaddeus, that the guard and security cameras can corroborate their stories if that is indeed what happened." He gave Preston and Antoine a seemingly innocent smile. "Isn't that right, boys?"

"Yes, sir!" Antoine and Preston chimed in unison.

* * *

Preston drove the Cadillac SUV to the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. Smithers sat beside him in the passenger seat, while Antoine, Dimas and Burns rode in the passenger compartment. At Burns' request, the divider had been left down, so he could give instructions to Smithers as needed.

Smithers then relayed Burns' words to Preston, despite the fact that Preston could hear Burns' instructions fine on his own.

It's nothing personal, Preston, Smithers explained, trying to soothe the young assistant's bruised ego. Mister Burns just has a certain way he likes things done, that's all.

Preston held the wheel tightly and nodded. He was still quietly pensive from earlier that morning.

Burns gestured to the tractor trailers. "Pull up next to those trucks," he ordered.

Preston obliged.

A white cargo van was already there, parked next to the waiting semis. Preston had barely brought the SUV to a stop before Burns hopped out and strode briskly over to the van. Smithers swung himself out of the car, following close behind.

Dimas hesitated in the open door, unsure of whether to go or stay. Eventually he got out, slamming the door behind him.

Preston sat still, eyes locked straight ahead. He slid his fingers back and forth on the steering wheel. Antoine leaned over his shoulder. "Hey," he whispered softly, "you okay, Prep?"

Preston shook his head. "Just nervous is all. Something feels off, if you know what I mean."

Antoine leaned over the driver's seat, his blue hair brushing Preston's cheek as he craned his neck to see better.

Preston shoved him slightly. "Hey, personal space," he muttered softly.

"Sorry," Antoine replied in a low voice. He slid over a few inches, and folded his arms over the center console. "What do you think they're talking about out there?"

Preston shook his head. "I don't know, but old Burns is really keeping an eye on everything."

"How do you know?"

Preston gestured out the windshield. "He's checked every driver's identification at least twice, then he had Waylon verify it as well." Preston folded his arms over the steering wheel, and rested his chin on them. "Mister Dimas seems positively jumpy," he added.

Antoine nodded. "Do you suspect he knows something?"

Preston sighed. "Let's assume they all do," he replied.

Antoine had slid closer. Again. "I'm beginning to seriously rethink this," he muttered as he watched Smithers crawl under each trailer with a flashlight and mirror. "What on earth are they looking for?"

Preston shook his head. "I'm not sure. But I hope they don't find anything."

Antoine nodded. His hair once again sweeping across Preston's cheek.

"Jeeze, come off it," Preston hissed quietly, pushing Antoine's head away. "Why do you have to be so close all the time?"

Antoine glanced at Preston and shrugged. "Who knows. And hey, why are we still whispering?"

Preston made a motion to reply, then realized he had nothing to say. He shut his mouth, and shook his head. Silently, he and Antoine watched the drivers climb into the unmarked semi-trailers. The trucks rumbled to life, belching clouds of sooty smoke while the engines warmed up.

The rear passenger door opened, and Dimas climbed in, followed by Burns.

Antoine shifted so he was facing the center of the SUV again.

Smithers was the last to get in. He held a clipboard tightly to his chest.

"Let's go," Burns announced. He pulled out a walkie-talkie and spoke into it: "You'll be following us. Maintain a visual at all times."

The radio cracked as one by one, the drivers reported in, and confirmed Burns' instructions.

Preston shifted the car into gear.

"Where are we going, Mister Burns."

Burns leaned back in his seat and interlaced his fingers. "Never you mind that. Just drive. Smithers will tell you the way."

Preston looked over at Smithers. It seemed like everyone knew something, and no one was admitting anything. Did they think he, Preston Tucci was being left out? _Sure_ , he thought. _That's what they'd like to believe._ He glanced at Antoine in the rearview mirror.

As if feeling Preston's gaze, Antoine looked up. Their eyes met, once, briefly, then Preston returned his attention to the road. At least Smithers confirmed what he and Antoine had said over breakfast, regarding their little adventure. The video tapes, and testimonial from the guard sealed it. Never mind the sneaking about, he reasoned, thinking about the trucks that followed closely behind. Preston had a feeling they'd all find out soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

The five men rode in relative silence. Naturally, Antoine Radson was the first to break it. "Where exactly are we going?" he asked as Smithers instructed Preston onto a wide highway heading west.

"Just a little place," Dimas replied, looking over at Burns.

"Oh yes," Burns replied calmly. "Just a place."

Smithers made a disapproving sound in his throat, but otherwise said nothing.

One of the things about Springfield, Antoine noticed, was how diverse the scenery was. When they'd landed , it had been mostly gentle hills and flat forests. Burns Manor was set on a gently sloping rise, the foothills of several mountains to the west. As they drove, they climbed up through the hills, and into the steep-walled passes between the snow-capped mountains.

Finally they passed through a tunnel in one of the mountains. ("The Carter-Nixon Tunnel," Burns explained.) They emerged after what seemed like forever, to find an entirely different landscape before them. The ground was rough and flat. Antoine noticed a sign by the side of the road: "Entering Badlands," the sign proclaimed. Beneath that the phrase "High-Speed Chases Use Diamond Lane," had been printed.

Antoine pivoted in his seat and watched the receding view of the mountains out the rear window. He wrinkled his face like a confused puppy, and tied his hair back.

This was not the first time he had been involved with something hush-hush for Thaddeus Dimas. The man wasn't exactly the same person he appeared to be in the public eye. Dimas was known to be just as ruthless as Burns; except with a wide smile.

Antoine repositioned himself and looked out the front window. There was also that matter of Dimas' little indiscretions when it came to his marriage. Antoine didn't approve in the least. It seemed like every city they flew to, Dimas always sound some pretty young thing to keep him company at night.

At first, Antoine had felt conflicted. He didn't want any part in Dimas' affairs.

Unfortunately, his involvement seemed inevitable. Dimas had no problems requisitioning the company helicopter for purported "business trips," all the while the sole purpose was some little triste on the side. Antoine had balked at the idea, but Dimas was paying him handsomely for Antoine's exclusive arrangement.

Antoine found as time went on, it became all the easier to turn a blind eye to Dimas' activities. The simple truth was working as an independent pilot wouldn't always pay the bills. He also didn't own his own helicopter. Purchase price aside, the sheer operating costs of a chopper were astronomical compared to other forms of aircraft. The cost of fueling his Little Diva, for example, cost into the thousands per refill. He couldn't afford his own chopper right now; or possibly ever.

Flying a chopper was all Antoine ever wanted to do, and he wouldn't trade it, but it wasn't an inexpensive career. He had to draw substantial income just to repay the cost of his training. Initially, he reasoned, he could become an instructor. Sure that meant even more schooling, more flight hours, _more_ tests, but then he figured he could start pulling income teaching. It turned out breaking into the aeronautical world as an instructor was not as easy as he thought.

Then one day, he'd seen an advertisement looking for an exclusively contracted pilot. That job had been with Thaddeus Dimas. The pay was well-worth it. The only caveat he'd known about was that he'd be on-call at all times. Whenever Dimas wanted to hop to the next state over, Antoine had to be there to make it happen.

Antoine hadn't caught on to Dimas' side ventures right away. It took him a bit of time to realize his employer's business trips weren't purely business. He'd had a long internal debate with himself on that matter.

Eventually, Antoine decided what happened between Mister and Missus Dimas was not his business. Perhaps she knew about her husband's affairs, and was okay with it. For all he even knew, they might be swingers. Ultimately, he reasoned with himself, their marriage was their prerogative, not his.

Antoine sighed heavily and stared out the windshield. There was nothing but sun-scorched rock as far as he could see; tinged white at the edges from the salt of some long dead lake. The alkali flats. They were a forlorn and sour place.

He leaned an arm on the back of Smithers' seat and glanced at the dashboard.

"We're not going to run out of fuel, are we?"

Unexpectedly, Dimas chuckled from behind him. "Run out of fuel? Well that's an interesting play on words isn't it?" He sniggered, then fell silent.

"We've got plenty," Preston replied.

The black SUV continued to roll along under the unyielding sun, three tractor trailers following closely behind.

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns did everything he could to appear relaxed, but his posture was ever vigilant. He was looking for the marker along the roadside that indicated the turn to AlkaliStark. He'd never had a road put it. That would only draw attention.

Ah, there, up ahead. By a lone mile-marker on the highway.

"Smithers," Burns interjected, into the hushed vehicle, "that's where we want to turn." He pointed with a slender finger. "There, where the guardrail ends. Have Preston turn left off the road."

Smithers leaned over. "Did you get that, Preston?"

The young man nodded. "I got that."

Preston slowed the SUV down, and put on his blinker.

"No blinker," Burns snapped. "Just slow down, then turn. My drivers know the route."

Preston squinted. He hadn't packed sunglasses on this trip. Staring that the bone white earth was starting to mess with his eyes. He could see where the guardrail ended. It seemed like nothing more than empty desert behind. He brought the SUV nearly to a stop, glanced both ways out of habit, then made a sharp turn left, across all the lanes, and into the badlands beyond.

The SUV rumbled and bounced, kicking up a plume of white dust behind it.

One by one, the three tractor trailers turned off the road and followed suit.

Burns pulled out a compass, and checked it. "Bear west-by-northwest," he instructed. "Keep on that angle for another five miles." He leaned over the center console. "Aim for that mesa, Preston." He clapped the young man on the shoulder. "As long as you keep your nose to the wind, and eyes on the road, you'll be fine."

There was no road that Preston could see.

It was all just rock, and hard-baked earth.

To Burns' keen eyes however, the faint depressions from decades of truck traffic was evident. He hunched between Preston and Smithers, hawk-like visage riveted on the scene ahead.

Burns always felt a change in his attitude as he approached AlkaliStark. He was sure no one but Smithers noticed. All his apprehension vanished, replaced by a keen anticipation. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was real nonetheless.

After they'd gone five miles, Burns gave Preston new instructions, and a second bearing to follow. It took them over a dry lake bed, then dropped into an arroyo that couldn't be seen from the desert.

The ground sloped gently down in a wide track that allowed both Preston's SUV, and the tractor trailers to pass easily. Ten feet down, twenty, thirty… before long the sky was a narrow blue ribbon running above.

The arroyo widened, and now the clear evidence of blasting could be seen. The walls were steep, vertical, and cut at proper angles. Burns instructed Preston to bear left at a junction, and the younger man did.

The road levelled out, made a gentle curve around a sculpted corner, then dead-ended at a pair of heavy blast doors; steel and concrete reinforcing each other. The center-sealed doors stood easily twenty feet high, and thirty feet wide.

"Whoa…" gasped Antoine.

Preston and Smithers said nothing, but Smithers' grip on the dashboard tightened imperceptibly.

Burns reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote control that looked similar to the ones for the gates at the manor. He pushed a single button. The ground vibrated slightly as the massive doors swung outward. Smithers was struck by how thick they were. Easily four feet wide, with interlocking steel bars that slid between them when closed.

Burns gestured proudly. "Welcome, gentlemen, to AlkaliStark." He gave Preston's shoulder a squeeze. "Go on, my man. We have work to do."

Preston swallowed with an audible gulp, but inched the car forward.

* * *

Smithers glanced over at Burns' face. The old monarch of the atom had an uncommon gleam to his eyes. _Whatever he says about wanting to protect me,_ Smithers thought, _the idea of power is as intoxicating to him as ever._

Smithers craned his head and looked out through the sun roof as the SUV passed under the massive door frame, and into the huge hall beyond.

One by one, the tractor trailers followed, circling in a wide arc between the support pillars. They came to a stop, and killed their engines.

Smithers opened the door and stepped out. The air was dusty, and had a faint metallic quality to it. It almost reminded him of blood: the hints of salt and iron. It clearly took several moments for his eyes to adjust.

The room in which the trucks parked was huge, yet dimly lit. Several rows of halogen lights hung overhead, but most were dark. The roof itself was concrete and steel, supported by massive circular columns easily fifteen feet each in diameter. They stretched up, widening at the tops, supporting the flat roof with a design that reminded Smithers of a cathedral roof. Antoine quickly bounded out and stared, open mouthed.

"I call this the main gallery," Burns said, spreading his arms wide and spinning in a circle. "Built to withstand a nuclear blast; protect those within from any act of man or God." He grinned, his eyes flashing with an almost predatory sheen. "This is my private installation, AlkaliStark, from which I shall watch the end of the world, and emerge alive to claim my place as the ruler of New Earth." He raised his hands higher. "My name is C. Montgomery Burns! King of kings! Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Smithers put an arm around Burns' shoulder, bringing his beloved friend back to the present. "Yes, Monty," he placated. "You alone shall be left to rule the world."

Burns didn't shrug Smithers' arm away.

"Oh balls, Smithers. You'll be there too, you know. No one wants to rule alone for eternity."

Smithers smiled in spite of himself. "Ah, quite so."

Burns draped an arm around Smithers' waist and turned to face the gathered team. "Gentlemen, I'm sure you're wondering why I brought you here today." He gestured to the trucks. "Thaddeus and I have a most lucrative arrangement, and something that, by bearing witness to, you are now under an oath of secrecy." He paused, watching the reaction of the crowd. "If you are unwilling to keep this information unspoken till death, and beyond, there are the doors. You may freely leave now."

No one moved.

Burns smirked.

No one ever did take that offer.

After all, beyond those doors was thirty miles in any direction of nothing but salty desert. To back out now invited certain death. No, Burns thought, looking at the apprehensive face of Preston, Antoine's neutral gaze, and Dimas' barely concealed anticipation. They were wall committed, one way or another. He tightened his grasp on Smithers waist, suddenly aware that Smithers' arm was still draped over his shoulder. No matter. Perceptions weren't important right now. There was no place he'd rather have Smithers stand but beside him.

"What you see before you is my personal repository. The waste of a dozen nuclear reactors slumbers beneath our feet, and around us in the shadows." He gestured to the rear of the room. "Three levels, silo after dry-storage cask silo, carefully preserving all those forgotten fuel rods for the ages."

Burns raised an eyebrow.

"Does anyone have any questions about what we're here to do?"

No one did.

Burns smiled. "Good." He raised his chin, indicating the drivers by the trucks. "You'll take the lead in unloading the assemblies into dry storage. Thaddeus and I will oversee the process in due time. First though, I'd like to show you around the main gallery." He gestured to the room. "The second and third sublevels are much the same. Come with me." He turned in Smithers' arm, and held out an elbow. "Waylon, if you'd be so kind?"

Smithers interlocked his arm with Burns' looking slightly puzzled, but agreeable.

Thus together, Burns lead them off through the shadowy caverns of AlkaliStark.

* * *

Waylon Smithers felt as if he and Burns were alone in the complex. With Burns arm through his, he could practically forget they were playing host to Dimas and his small entourage. He resisted the urge to lean over, and kiss Burns on the cheek.

The older man was clearly in his element. Regardless of his personal feelings for what Burns was doing, Smithers couldn't help but find Burns' enthusiasm rather infectious. He let Burns direct him through corridors and central chambers of AlkaliStark.

At the end of one hall, they stopped. Burns hit a keypad on the side wall, and a section of steel opened, splitting horizontally. One panel slid up, one down; like a giant mouth opening without a sound. "This is one of the freight elevators to the silo level," Burns explained. "There's another off the main gallery. That's what the drivers will be using to bring the assemblies down here." He lead them in.

"There's power," Preston remarked in surprise as they descended.

"Well, naturally," Burns replied. "There are a few ways, though not conventional, to squeeze a bit more life out of these fuel rods." He patted a concrete silo affectionately. "Why, one could live a thousand years down here, if that's what it took."

Preston started to speak. "But people don't live-"

Smithers caught his eye and shook his head. Reminding Burns of his mortality was never a wise choice. Innocent or not, Smithers didn't want to see Monty Burns have one of his mood swings, and turn on Preston.

They walked back through the silo level towards the elevator near the tractor trailers parked on the level above. As they approached the elevator, it slid open. Two of the drivers came, propelling a transport box on industrial wheeled jacks.

Smithers glanced at their faces. The drivers for trucks one and two. They nodded to him, and Smithers waved them on.

The small crew slid into the elevator, and rode back to the main gallery.

Smithers forgot how bright daylight could be. Even though they were well under the roof, the open blast doors, and white rock beyond, threw an almost painful degree of light into the gallery. He shielded his eyes, and surveyed the scene. Something wasn't right. He couldn't quite figure out what at first, then it dawned on him.

One of the trucks rear gates was slightly ajar, swinging with the wind that came in through the blast doors. He knew the trucks were never supposed to be unsecure except during active unloading. Carefully Smithers detached himself from Burns, and approached the trailer. He flipped on his flashlight application, and held his phone aloft, illuminating the interior of the trailer.

The silver grey transport cask was still there, strapped to its pallet. Smithers started to shut the cargo doors when the tip of his shoe collided with something soft and yielding. His toe was resting against a pale human hand.

Repulsed, Smithers jerked his foot back and crouched lower, illuminating the space under the trailer with his phone. The driver lay there, pale but alive. There was a bloody gash along the side of his head, clotting slowly with a pool on the ground. The man's chest rose and fell steadily.

"Hey," Smithers yelled. "Everybody get over here!"

Dimas and Burns slid under the trailer. Burns felt for a pulse, unnecessarily, while Dimas checked the man's neck. "

"Do you think he fell," Smithers asked, sliding out.

Dimas shook his head. "Unlikely. There's be blood on the bumper if he had. It looks like he was struck with something, and dragged under here." Dimas was in the process of crawling out from the trailer when his eyes latched onto something. "Waylon," he give a tilt of his head, "shine your light over there for a moment."

Smithers did as Dimas requested. He moved the beam along the brake lines of the trailer. Something pink caught his eye. He crawled past Burns, and reached up. Nylon, cloth, something like that. He set his phone down and fidgeted blindly for a minute. Finally, his deft fingers found some sort of release clasp. He popped the clasp open, and rocked back on his haunches.

It looked like a dog collar: a pink nylan band with hearts, and a small box mounted to it.

Dimas' face grew pale. He reached out a hand.

"You recognize that?" Smithers asked as he passed it over.

Dimas nodded.

"Evita, my wife, she's got this little toy poodle. Cute thing, sweet dog. She kept getting out and getting lost. For Christmas, I bought my wife one of those GSP tracking collars. You know, so she could keep track of the dog. It came with a phone app you can download."

Burns narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure that's hers?"

Dimas pulled out his phone. He loaded the app, and did a search. The collar in his hand gave a cheerful beeping sound. Dimas dropped it, as if he'd been shocked. "Oh yes," he moaned softly, "that's hers alright."

The three men climbed out from under the truck, gently sliding the driver with them. Smithers looked up and did a quick head-count. _One, two, three, four…_ "Where's Antoine?" he asked, suddenly alarmed.

"Maybe he's still downstairs. I'll go look for him." Preston leapt to his feet.

"Preston, no!"

It was too late. Preston Tucci disappeared into the darkness, calling Antoine's name. The vast cavern of the main gallery swallowed his words without so much as an echo. It was unsettling, down-right creepy even.

Dimas looked at Burns, and gave him a what-the-hell gesture.

"I had this place sound-proofed," Burns explained with a shrug. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Smithers felt a slight vibration in the ground. The room began to suddenly grow darker. "The doors!" Burns yelled, leaping to his feet.

Dimas shoved Smithers out the way and started running. "Don't let them-"

Despite their bulk, the doors were faster than Dimas. He arrived at the center mere seconds after they'd sealed. "-Close," he finished his sentence futilely, and rested his head against the seam. He held that pose for a moment, then raised his head and screamed. Furious, he slammed his massive fists against the steel frame.

Burns shook his head. "Don't waste your time, Tad. Those doors weight fifty thousand pounds each. You won't be able to make so much as a dent. Smithers, where's the remote?"

"I believe it's back in the Escalade, sir. I'll go get it."

Smithers ran back to the SUV, and threw the door open. He could've sworn Burns left the remote on the dashboard. He checked there, the glove box, every console. Smithers searched between the seats, and under them. The Escalade, a high-class rental was spotlessly clean… and the remote was nowhere to be found.

Smithers felt a sense of dread begin to well up in his chest. He'd never told Burns how much he hated feeling trapped. He had recurring nightmares of being buried alive. It was the worst sensation he could ever imagine. The red tendrils of claustrophobia started to wrap their way around his mind. He shook his head, as if to clear it. He had to keep himself together. Now was no time to panic.

As he continued to search in vain, he heard a soft noise from the other side of the car.

Smithers leapt back, brandishing his cell-phone as if it were sword. "Get back," he threatened the darkness, "I'm warning you…"

The sound came again, a sort of plaintive mewling noise. And rather familiar. Smithers flipped his flashlight in that direction.

Antoine was standing there, eyes glazed over slightly, left hand soaked in blood.

His arm didn't appear injured, but as Smithers looked up, several more drops of blood fell to the ground. "Waylon?" Antoine whimpered.

Then Smithers saw it: the feathered shaft of a crossbow bolt lodged deep in Antoine's right shoulder.

Antoine was starting to go into shock. He reached up, and tugged at the feathered shaft weakly with his left hand. More blood spattered on the floor. "I think I have an arrow in me…?" Antoine remarked, dazed.

"Oh, no no no," Smithers reached out and half caught Antoine as the blue-haired man stumbled forward. Smithers could see the tip of the bolt protruding from Antoine's back. "Come here, sit down." He helped Antoine into a sitting position against the side of the SUV.

"Mister Burns, Dimas!" Smithers yelled. "I need help!"

Within seconds, Burns and Dimas skidded up to him.

Dimas looked pale, and slightly green. He was clearly feeling ill.

Burns assessed Antoine with a critical eye. "That'll need to come out," he observed, feeling the wound. "That projectile's missed anything vital. Just soft tissue under the arm." He gestured to the feathered shaft.

"Smithers, break that off for me. I'll hold the other end."

Dimas wrung his hands fretfully. "Monty, everything I've read always said you're never supposed to remove an arrow from the victim."

Burns didn't look up. He shrugged off his blazer and rolled up his sleeves. "Quiet, Dimas," Burns snapped. "I learned how to field dress wounds like this in the war."

Dimas wrinkled his brow. "Which one?"

"World War Two, World War One, Spanish-American War… Good lord, man. I am expected to remember everything? Now shut up and let me concentrate." He glanced at Smithers. "And you! Why the hell haven't you broken that shaft yet?"

"Sorry, sir," Smithers replied, grasping the narrow piece of wood in both hands and bending it sharply.

There was an audible snap. Antoine gave a yelping moan, and arched his back.

"Pull him forward," Burns instructed. "One of you at each arm."

Burns pulled out a small pen-knife and cut Antoine's shirt off.

Smithers and Dimas held Antoine forward gently, but firmly. Burns wrapped a bit of cloth around his hand for traction, and grasped the head of the crossbow bolt. "He may flinch a bit," Burns remarked. He had taken on a level of detachment. As if he were doing nothing more severe than opening the mail over breakfast.

Burns slid behind Antoine, and put his foot on the man's shoulder. "Always pull them out in the direction of travel, if you can," Burns grunted. Bracing between Antoine's back and the SUV, Burns grabbed the head of the bolt in his cloth-wrapped hand, and gave a sudden hard jerk.

The bolt wrenched free with a wet, sucking sound.

Antoine's eyes flew open, and he screamed once, piercing, before he passed out again.

Burns tossed Antoine's shirt to Smithers. "Rip this into shreds. We need it control the flow of his precious blood. Now that said bolt's out, it's no longer serving to plug his wounds. Here," Burns held out his hand. "Give me your coat. We need to keep him warm. This concrete will suck the heat right out of his body."

They were so focused on Antoine that no one noticed Preston had emerged from the shadows. No one noticed, that is, until Preston cried out and dropped down on his knees beside Antoine. "My god, no!" He threw himself towards Antoine's chest, but was roughly grabbed by the atom baron of Plateau City.

"Preston…" Dimas eyes held no warmth.

Preston struggled in Dimas' vice-like grip, trying to get closer. "What happened to him? Is he dead!? Please, no…" Preston flailed weakly.

"Yes," Smithers said, looking up levelly. "What _did_ happen, Preston?"

Preston tried to pry Dimas' arms away. "I don't know. The time I saw him was before we found the driver. I didn't even notice he was gone. This is all my fault!"

Dimas' lips curled away from his teeth. "Is that an admission of guilt?"

"What? No! God no!" Preston was becoming hysterical. "How could you ever think that?"

Smithers' mouth was a thin line. "I don't know, Preston," he replied as he wrapped the jackets around Antoine. "But you have to admit this doesn't look good for you."

Preston arched his body, trying to throw Dimas off. It was a pointless effort. "I know how it looks, but that's not how it is!" he wailed.

He was in the middle of a protest when a silver projectile, about the size of a large wallet whipped through the air. It collided with Preston's head with an audible crack.

Preston yelped.

"See, that's not me! I'm right here! I'm innocent. Please, let me go."

Dimas' arms went limp. He was staring at the small, shattered object by their feet.

"What is that," Smithers asked, perplexed.

Dimas picked it up and turned it over. "My wife's MyPhone," he said slowly. "The one I had engraved with her name." He let the phone fall from his fingers, and dropped his head in his hands.

The words on the metal case stared back at him, accusingly. _Evita Ariadne Dimas._


	5. Chapter 5

For several long moments, no one spoke. Waylon Smithers picked up the shattered phone, and looked at Preston.

 _They shoot him with a crossbow_ , he thought, looking at Antoine. His eyes ran over Preston. _But they just throw a phone at you…_ Something wasn't adding up in Smithers' mind. He tossed the phone aside.

Phone! That was it. He pulled out his cellphone and started entering a number.

"That won't work, you know," Burns said, voice hollow.

Smithers paused.

"Everything here is lead-lined. One those blast doors shut, no radio signal gets out, or in. We're cut off."

"So we just have to get the doors open again."

Burns snorted. "Just. You make it sound easy. We're stuck here you know."

Smithers flexed his fingers, and tried not to focus on his breathing. "I know, Monty. Please don't remind me." He leaned back and took a deep breath. "That's not helping."

Dimas raised his head from his hands. "At least there's still light."

As if on cue, the overhead halogen arcs shut off with a resounding boom.

Smithers' breath hitched in his throat. He mentally started counting backward, from twenty to one, trying to calm himself.

"Well that's just great," Dimas snarled from somewhere.

Preston lifted his phone, screen illuminating a small circle around the party.

"We have to get to the main control room," Burns announced. "The electrical system runs on its own circuit, independent of everything else. It's on the third level down."

"What about the elevators?"

"Still powered," Burns replied. "Everything runs on its own loop. I wasn't going to take the risk of being trapped like a rat," he added haughtily.

Smithers raised his phone, adding a second light. "What about Antoine? We can't leave him here?"

"We shall take him with us," Burns replied. He looked at Dimas.

Dimas nodded. "I can carry him, no problem."

Preston put his hand on Antoine's chest. "Are you sure we should move him?"

"He's suffered no great trauma," Burns replied casually. "As long as he we make sure to preserve his sanguine fluid, I expect he'll make a full recovery." Burns rose to his feet and clapped his hands. "Come, come. Nothing to be gathered by sitting here in the dark like heroes of Virgil, waiting for the harpies to descend upon us."

Dimas gave a grunt and slung Antoine over his shoulder in a fire-man's carry.

"'Lead on, McDuff,'" Preston muttered, pausing to brush a strand of Antoine's blue hair off the unconscious man's face. He dropped into step behind his boss.

Burns trotted ahead, his step oddly cheerful as if nothing was amiss. Smithers had seen this before. Burns didn't always handle a crisis well, and he tended to handle stress by injecting a false sense of normalcy into the situation: his way of appearing in control while the world burned around him.

Smithers caught up to Burns by the elevator and paused, putting a hand on Burns' shoulder.

"We shouldn't get too far ahead of Mister Dimas and Preston."

"Waylon, don't get all fretful. We showed them around, didn't we?"

"Not the control room; and not in the dark," Smithers pointed out.

Burns sighed heavily. "Fine. Don't belabor me with nit-picking, Smithers." He raised his head. "Ho, Thaddeus! How are you making out?"

The dim glow of Preston's phone illuminated the area around Dimas and Antoine. "I've had better days," he remarked flatly.

"Haven't we all," Smithers tittered.

Burns gave him a sidelong look. "For god's sake, keep it together man," Burns hissed under his breath.

"I'm trying Monty; but I really don't like being lost in the dark under all these tons of concrete and rock." Smithers looked up into the darkness. The light from his phone didn't even reach the ceiling. "I feel like all that weight's right over my head, and could come crashing down at any minute," he moaned.

A vice-like hand was on his wrist.

"Now you listen to me, Waylon Joseph," Burns snapped. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I got you into this, and I'll get you out. I've been in binds worse than this. Why, we'll be fine, I'm sure. Now pull yourself up by your bootstraps, and tell me you'll be okay." He gave Smithers a slight shake for emphasis.

Smithers inhaled deeply, then coughed. "I'll try, Monty. I can't promise anything, but I'll try."

Burns pursed his lips and ran his hand along Smithers' arm. "I guess that will have to do," he resigned.

Dimas came up, huffing slightly. Preston hung at his side, glancing worriedly at Antoine's inert form. From time to time, Preston would try and brush Antoine's loose hair out of the way. Smithers noted how lost Preston seemed. Without Dimas ordering him about, the thin young man seemed completely adrift. It was painful to see, but Smithers didn't have time for that now.

Burns hit the 'call' button. There was a faint hum as the cables carrying the freight elevator began to move. "Mister Burns," Smithers began, reflexively using Burns' formal title, "I hate to ask this question, but where are the other two drivers?"

Dimas made a faint sound, sharply drawing air over clenched teeth. "I think," he said, as the doors opened, "we've found them."

* * *

The two men lay, unconscious, and tied back to back in the middle of the elevator floor. Burns checked for a pulse on first one, then the other.

"They're both alive," he remarked. "It appears the same assailant as who fell upon poor Richards also had his way with Thompson and Johns." Burns indicated the matching bruises on both men's temples.

Preston ran his fingers along a strand of Antoine's blue hair. "I suppose that rules them out," he observed.

Dimas glared at Preston and took a step back. "Damn it, Tucci. Keep your hands off him. He's not some dog that needs your pitiable caresses. Move over there more. I don't need you so close."

Preston dropped his head to his chest, and slunk off to the corner of the elevator, eyes fixed on the floor. Dimas made a snorting sound in his throat.

"You know," he began venomously, as the elevator descended, "some days I wonder if I shouldn't have let you go immediately after the 'incident' at Albany." He sneered at his assistant, eyes glowing with hostility.

"What? Why?" Preston looked up, plaintively.

Dimas spat on the ground. "You know what, Preston, sometimes I just find I get tired of your _face_."

The situation was spiraling out of control.

Smithers could see what was happening.

The stress of being trapped, the fear for their own well-being, was causing the entire group to self-destruct. Burns was in some form of denial, Smithers already knew how claustrophobia affected his mind, and it appeared Dimas was ready to fight his way through anything, or anyone.

Smithers held up his hands. It was like trying to calm a raging bull. "Easy, Mister Dimas, sir!" he pleaded. "We need to make it out of here alive and in one piece. Please don't take it out on Preston right now! This is hard on all of us."

Dimas growled and lowered his head like a beast.

Smithers realized he had moved between Dimas and Preston. He kept his hands up, shielding Preston from Dimas' rage. He was half expecting Dimas to charge him, but mercifully the doors opened. Dimas threw his head back, shifted Antoine's weight. He gave Smithers a murderous look, and stalked out.

Burns watched him go, then followed into the dark.

Smithers reached over to Preston, cupping the thin man's shoulder in his palm. He realized Preston had been crying. "Hey, hey," he murmured. "You okay?"

Preston sniffled and shook his head.

Smithers gave Preston's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Me neither," he admitted, glancing over his shoulder. "But we're going to be, alright? We're all going to get through this, and everything will be okay. I promise."

Preston nodded wordlessly.

"Come on," Smithers coaxed. "They don't have much light from Dimas' phone, and I know Mister Burns doesn't carry one. Let's go catch up."

Preston bobbed his head, and dropped into step behind Smithers.

It felt strange, Smithers reflected, to be taking the lead in anything, but he hated to see anyone look like that. Compassion, he thought. Smithers wasn't sure if it was his weakness, or a strength.

The two younger men quickly caught up to Burns and the slow-moving Dimas.

Dimas didn't say anything, but glared at Preston and Smithers from beneath a sweat-lined brow. He was breathing heavily now, Antoine's weight clearly taking its toll on even his robust physique.

Burns padded over to a wide, interlocking door. Next to it was a covered control panel. He flipped it up, put his palm on a wide pad, and his eye over a scanner. "Hand and retina-print technology," he explained as the doors slid open.

The control room was not a large space when compared the main gallery, or silo storage, but it was an ample space nonetheless. There were several rows of video monitors, all dark, and a series of control panels. A quartet of radio handsets sat on a charger. There were several rolling chairs positioned around a steel table. In the back wall several bunks had been set into alcoves; military-style. There was a washroom, and even a small kitchen area. Unlike the rest of the installation, the control room was brightly lit.

Dimas dropped Antoine as gently as he could onto one of the bunks, and pulled a wool blanket over him. Dimas then joined Burns by one of the control panels. Smithers and Preston watched helplessly as Burns brought the monitors to life.

"Can you get main power back to the galleries?" Dimas asked.

"Naturally. But it may take some time." His hands flew over the controls. "Someone manually disabled the lights and ventilation system."

Despite everything, Smithers couldn't help but watch Burns' every move. The man seemed so confident, and in control. Whether it was an illusion or not, Smithers didn't even know anymore. Burns looked as comfortable at the control of AlkaliStark as he did sitting in his own office at the manor. Smithers wondered how many years Burns had been coming here; and vaguely wondered who built this place. The design was clearly something Burns would've come up with, but who helped him put his plan in motion? Smithers wasn't sure he wanted to know. Despite the sensation of the walls closing in on him, watching Burns gave him something other than his own fear to focus on. Gave him courage; hope.

What was it about Montgomery Burns that had so captured his heart?

Smithers didn't have the answer to that either; but he was glad for it every single day.

Bolstering his courage, he walked over and stood at Burns' left shoulder, peering down over the controls.

"What do you see, Monty?" he asked.

Burns grunted. "Everything will have to be manually restored at the power station, but I can input the codes from here. I need someone to see what's causing the problem though." He raised an eyebrow to Smithers. "How about it, my boy. Are you feeling brave?"

"I'll go," Dimas offered.

Burns gave the thick man a patronizing look. "No… no. I don't think you shall. You see, I need someone I can trust explicitly." He patted Dimas' hand. "Not that I don't trust you, Tad, but this is something I'd feel much better letting my dear Smithers handle." Burns smiled winsomely. "I hope you understand?"

Dimas folded his arms across his chest. "Oh, I think I understand."

Smithers grabbed Burns' arm and tugged him away to a private corner. "Are you sure that's wise, Monty? Leaving him here with you? What if this is all his plan?"

Burns patted Smithers on the cheek with his cool hand. "My dear boy, I do trust him. I trust you too. If you'd feel safer, you can bring him along. Here," Burns slipped his penknife into Smithers' hip pocket. "It won't do much, but it might slow him down if my judgement turns out to have been misplaced," he whispered.

Smithers swallowed, and tried to put on a brave face. The idea of slowing down all two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle with a little blade seemed laughable.

Burns clearly saw Smithers apprehension. He patted Smithers cheek, then left his fingers trail along Smithers fine jawline before dropping his hand. His voice was soft, but full of emotion. "Haven't I promised to keep you safe, Waylon? I promise no harm will ever befall you so long as I am here."

(You've made that promise before, whispered a little voice in Burns' head. And you remember how that story ended.)

"Shut up," Burns muttered, looking away.

Smithers brow creased with concern. "Sir?"

Burns shook his head. "Ah, never you mind, Smithers. You'll be fine. I'll be keeping an eye on you from here." Burns raised his chin and nodded to Preston. "You there! How is that pilot faring?"

"He's stable, I guess," Preston admitted.

Burns gestured to Antoine's form. "Is there blood coming from his wounds?"

Preston lifted the blanket up, checked Antoine's chest; then slid a hand to Antoine's shoulder. He drew his fingers back. No bloody tips. "He's not bleeding through."

Burns gave a single nod. "Then he'll make it."

He pointed to Dimas. "Tad, you're going with Waylon, as you're so keen to assist."

Dimas frowned, but nodded vigorously. "Understood, Monty."

"Here," Burns ordered, handing Smithers and Dimas each a clunky radio, and escorted them to heavy doors. "Straight and stalwart, Smithers." Burns gave a curt toss of his head. "Thaddeus."

Smithers took a deep breath, glanced at Dimas, then squared his shoulders. Side by side, the two men stepped out of the light, and into the ink-black space beyond.

* * *

Preston Tucci frequently returned to Antoine's side, hovering anxiously nearby.

"Will he wake up?"

Burns snorted. "Absolutely. It was a flesh wound, not a concussion." Burns pressed the "talk" button on the central console. "Smithers, Dimas, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear," came the crackling reply.

"Good." Burns toggled through some of the cameras on the surveillance screens. He had infra-red lights hung by the cameras. The cameras weren't "heat-vision," but they could translate the infrared illumination into a visible scene on the monitors. It gave Burns a greyscale view of Smithers and Dimas. Unfortunately, all it did was allow him to see. It didn't help them one bit; nor did the infrared light allow _them_ to see.

Smithers' flashlight app on his phone offered only the most meager illumination for the men.

"I've got my eyes on you," Burns announced. "Follow the hall to the elevator, then get off at the silo level. From there, turn left and follow the wall until you hit a junction. I'll let you know where to go from there."

Preston padded over and looked at an empty seat next to Burns.

The older man sighed, then patted it. "Sit," Burns instructed.

Preston sat.

"You said the ventilation system is shut down," Preston began quietly.

"Mmm-hmm," Burns replied absentmindedly, eyes focused on the screens.

"So does that mean we'll run out of air?"

Burns gave him a bored look. "No, Tucci. It does not. There's hundreds of thousands of cubic feet of air out there. It would take a small army doing vigorous calisthenics to use it all up. And even then, that wouldn't happen for days."

Preston nodded silently.

"So tell me, Tucci," Burns began, not taking his eyes off the monitors, "did _you_ attack those men?"

"Me?" Preston clenched his hands together. "No. I mean, of course not. I'd…" he hesitated and glanced at Antoine. "I'm not that sort of person."

Burns hummed thoughtfully. "No?"

Preston shook his head. "Absolutely not!"

Smithers and Dimas exited the elevator, and turned left.

"I see," observed Burns. "So with that in mind, Tucci, who do _you_ think is behind all this?"

Preston wrung his hands apprehensively. Burns noted the man had gotten a nervous flush along his neck. "I think it might have something to do with Evita," he began nervously.

"Dimas' wife? Why ever would you say that, my boy?" Burns pushed gently.

Preston ran a hand through his hair and puffed his cheeks. "Mister Dimas is…" he paused, struggling for words. "He's not a good man, Mister Burns. Sir." Preston shifted in his chair, uncrossed, then recrossed his legs. "He's, eh, not the family man he plays himself off to be."

"No?" Burns didn't turn his head.

"No. Not at all. He, uhm, he has indiscretions in his marriage." Preston hesitated. "He's not faithful. Mister Dimas, he doesn't… He isn't…"

Burns' hands flicked over the controls, moving the camera views to keep Dimas and Smithers in sight. "Let me guess, Preston. He has affairs. Dozens, maybe even hundreds. So many everyone has lost count. And all the while he thinks no one's ever the wiser for it. Is that right?"

Preston covered his mouth with his hands, but nodded nonetheless.

"You can talk, Tucci," Burns said, gesturing to the monitors. "He can't hear you."

Preston took a deep breath. It was as if the floodgates had opened. "He's constantly running off on business trips, or claiming that's what they are when it's really an excuse to go sleeping around! He has Antoine fly him everywhere to indulge his whim, and there's nothing anyone does about it." Preston's voice rose an octave. "I'm the one who writes notes to his wife, pretending to be him, apologizing for missing things like his son's birthday, or their anniversary! He has an entire secret budget allocated to that sort of stuff. He hasn't sent his wife a card or flowers in all the time I've worked for him. Sometimes _I_ send them to her on my own _because he forgets!_ "

Preston was yelling now: "I'm the one who has to keep up his public perception, and do damage control with his family! I do all of it, and I know, at the end of the day, I'm just as disposable to him as anyone else!" Preston slammed his hands on the armrest of his chair in an uncharacteristic display of emotions.

"I should just mind my own business and consider this part of the job, but I can't! Last month, at a benefit dinner we were at, his wife approached me on the side. Do you know what she told me?" He stared at Burns.

Burns looked away from the monitor and shook his head.

"Evita, she says 'look, Preston, I know you're the one who sends me those. I appreciate what you're trying to do. But I know you're the one writing those cards.'" Preston clutched his head with both hands.

"And what am I supposed to do about it? Tell her she's wrong? I did. I said he writes each one himself. And she told me she knew it was me because I write the invitations for the benefits; and her husband never wrote like me."

Preston groaned and dropped his head in his hands. "They never teach you how to handle this in business school. Or anywhere. And it's a good job. I don't want to get fired. But what am I supposed to do?"

Burns peered quizzically into Preston's eyes. "Are you asking me, Tucci? Or are you asking that of yourself?"

Preston made a tossing gesture with his hands. "I don't even know. Both, I guess."

"Eh," Burns grunted. He turned his focus back to the monitors.

Dimas and Smithers were still creeping slowly along.

"Well, Tucci, if you're asking _me_ , I'd tell you to focus on where the money comes from. It's not your business to get entangled in other peoples' lives. That's not your job; and no one will ever pay enough to make that headache worth your time."

"So, what, Mister Burns? I should just keep doing what I'm doing and hope it all works out?"

Burns made a face.

"Honestly, Tucci, I don't think it will. Your time with Dimas seems to have run its course." He switched to a different camera. Dimas and Smithers had reached the junction. Burns pressed the "talk" button. "Up ahead on your left is the entrance to the power room. I'll buzz you in when you're at the door." He released the button, cutting off the microphone.

"You know, Tucci, Smithers has been bugging me for his own personal assistant for several years now. I've never caved on that. But perhaps that's a career that might interest you, hmm?"

Preston smiled, but his eyes were sad. "Aww, thank you for the offer, sir. It's a great town you've got out in Springfield." His eyes flicked over Antoine. "But Plateau City is my home. I'm not ready to leave, not yet anyhow."

Burns nodded in understanding. "I hear where you're coming from, Preston." He regarded the young man with gently. "Well, I can't say I'll ever make that offer again, but I wish you all the best out there." He reached over and patted Preston's shoulder in a fatherly way.

Preston smiled, eyes filling with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Mister Burns. Sir. I needed that."

"Yes, I could see that." Burns chuckled. "I daresay some of Smithers' more compassionate attributes are rubbing off on me. I'd say 'so much the pity,' but between you and I, I don't think it's a pity at all."

The radio popped. Dimas voice came through, heavily laced with static. "We're here, Monty."

Burns looked at the monitor. Smithers and Dimas were crouched by a heavy, steel door. "Move quick," Burns ordered. He flicked a switch, swinging the door open a few feet. Smithers and Dimas ducked inside, securing the door behind them.

"What's the situation?" Burns barked into the microphone.

The only reply was static.

"Dammit Smithers, Thaddeus! What the hell is going on in there?"

The lights in the control room dimmed momentarily, and the private ventilation system, independent from the rest of the installation made lagging sound as the fans slowed for a moment. The monitors went dark. It all lasted only a split second. The lights came back up, and the air resumed its normal circulation.

Preston looked about nervously. "Do you think they're okay?"

Burns massaged the space between his eyes as he brought the monitors back online. "I desperately hope so."

Preston took a deep breath and stood up, pushing his chair away from the console. "I want to go looking for them. They might need help." His eyes darted to Antoine. Burns followed Preston's look.

"You keep watching him."

"Yeah… well, he's my friend." Preston straightened his back. "And so is Waylon. And I've got to look out for my friends, right?"

Burns gave Preston a sad smile. "You're a braver man than I, lad." He handed Preston the last radio. "Good luck out there, and be safe."


	6. Chapter 6

Antoine Radson had experienced hangovers before, but nothing quite like this. He groaned, and tried to push himself up. Pain exploded up his side, down his arm, and sent white flowers blooming behind his eyes.

"Ahhh," he moaned. "What the in the hell…?"

Burns glanced up from the control panel. "Ah. Mister Radson. Good to see you awake."

"What happened?"

"You were shot with a crossbow bolt. We removed it, and dressed your wound." Burns narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, what do you remember about that event?"

Antoine swung his feet over the edge of the bunk and rolled into a sitting position. He pulled the wool blanket around his bare chest and half-staggered over to Burns' console. "We'd just gotten off the elevator. I got distracted for a minute. When I looked back, I saw someone hiding behind one of the supports. I thought it might've been one of the drivers. You guys were over by the truck. So I went the other way to see who it was." He pulled the chair out and sat down. "When I got over there, there was this person crouched down by the floor, wearing all black. I leaned closer to see what was going on." He rubbed his chest with his left hand.

"And you got shot."

Antoine nodded. "Yeah, but not by that guy. There was a second person. The first guy was crouched down to give that other bloke a clear shot."

Burns nodded. "You're lucky he's probably not a very good marksman. And that he was close. He missed everything vital, and the bolt almost went clean through you."

Antoine drew the blanket closer. "That's luck?" He gave a derisive snort. "Well, the guy on the ground knocked me over, and when I got up, both of them were gone. I saw the doors close, and Waylon by the SUV. And then, I don't remember much."

Burns tented his fingers. "Lucky… or this was a plot to throw us off your trail."

"What!?"

Burns tapped Antoine's shoulder, making the man flinch. "Convenient, isn't it, to get shot through a non-essential part of your body. Now I'm not implying anything, of course, but a little mishap with the crossbow would provide a good alibi."

"I don't like what you're saying there," Antoine warned.

"I'd be surprised if you did."

Antoine felt Burns' eyes staring him down, examining him like an insect. It was disconcerting, and uncomfortable. He felt oddly exposed, and pulled the blanket tighter.

"Are you sure your attacker was a man?"

Antoine paused, trying to remember. "They were both dressed in black. One had a ski mask on. The other was wearing a watch cap and a scarf over his face." Neither figure had been overly large or tall that he had noticed. Though it had been hard to see in the dim light, he was fairly certain both people had been men.

"Pretty sure, yeah…" Antoine's voice trailed off. He suddenly became aware of his surroundings. "Where is this place? And where's everyone else? Where's Preston?"

"This is the main control room. The power was cut to the rest of the installation. Dimas and Smithers went to investigate. I lost radio contact, and visual. Your Preston went after them."

Antoine's head reeled. "You just let them go? There's a killer out there!"

Burns curled his lip. "Let's not exaggerate. No one's died yet. I think it's safe to say if that were going to happen, it would've by now."

The radio crackled to life. "That's what you think," a high-pitched voice cackled.

Charles Montgomery Burns leapt to his feet, staring into the empty monitors.

"Who are you? How did you get control of my communications system?"

The voice laughed, a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. "I am the Falcon! A product of a modern era. You're using 1950s technology. Believe me, it wasn't hard to crack."

"Whatever they're paying you to do this," Burns warned, "I'll double it."

"Oh old and foolish man," squealed the Falcon. "It's not your money I want, it's revenge! Justice. Money is the root of all problems in this world, especially yours."

"Why don't you show yourself, coward," Burns demanded, slamming his fist on the console.

"Hmmm… like this?" the Falcon asked.

The entire bay of monitors flashed to life, displaying a composite image, the first view of the Falcon. "How's this, Burns?" In the center was figure wearing a black ski-mask. The illuminated nuclear storage silos were in the background.

Burns made a noise of contempt. "I'd hardly call that 'showing yourself.'" Burns folded his arms across his thin chest. "I'm not impressed."

"No?" the Falcon mused. "Well, perhaps you will be now."

The ventilation system began to hiss ominously. Thin white tendrils of gas started flowing out the vents, and settling along the floor. The Falcon gave a merciless squeal of laughter. "Stay and die like a rat, old man; or bring the fight to me. I have your precious little band of merry men pinned down into the silo gallery. Their only chance is you. Make your choice, Monty."

The screens went dead.

Antoine glanced at the vapor slowly pooling by their feet. "Do you think he's bluffing?"

Burns sniffed the air. There was a faint tinge of garlic, or maybe horseradish. "Not bloody likely, Radson." He sniffed again. "I've fought enough wars in my lifetime to know a chemical agent when I smell one." He started pushing Antoine towards the door. "Out! Move, Radson!"

His hand hit Antoine's injured shoulder, and Antoine cried out in pain. "Watch it!"

"Hush up," Burns snapped, shoving Antoine out of the control room. "That's mustard gas. A diluted form of it, but not something you want to play around with." Burns shoved Antoine forward. _Whatever Falcon said, at least Dimas and Smithers managed to get the lights on_ , he thought balefully. Antoine started to bank towards the elevator, but Burns grabbed his arm. "No," Burns pointed. "Stairs. It'll be quicker. And they won't hear us coming," he added, slowing his pace.

"What if they have Preston and Waylon at gunpoint?" Antoine asked, trying to surge forward.

Burns held him back. "And what it's merely a trap?"

* * *

Preston Tucci was not a brave man, or at least he didn't consider himself such. He had no weapons, and barely knew where he was going. He wasn't even sure what he'd do if he ran into one of the attackers. Somehow, that didn't seem important right now.

He moved as quickly as he could, keeping his hand along the wall, feeling for the jaw-like doors of the freight elevator. His breath was tearing through his lungs in ragged gasps. His heart pounded in his ears. He wasn't even sure anymore if he'd taken the correct route. He debated calling Burns, then thought better of it. If anyone else was in the darkness, they'd be sure to hear his voice.

Same thing with his phone light. He had to stay hidden.

The wall he was following suddenly dead-ended. He must've gone too far, or taken a wrong turn. Preston felt a wild fear wake in the pit of his stomach, and start to claw its way up. _Lost!_ He bit down on his cheeks to keep from screaming, leaned his back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

 _Count to ten_ , Preston, he told himself. _Then, if that doesn't work. Count again. You can do this, big boy. For Waylon, and Antoine… You have to…_

He splayed his hands on the floor. His fingertips touched something cold and hard.

Instinctively he recoiled. There was a faint metallic sound from the motion.

His heart threatened to explode from his chest.

A minute passed, then another.

Nothing bad happened.

Preston reached his hand out cautiously, feeling for whatever it was he'd touched. There! He found it. Against the wall, and dusty concrete floor. It was a wrench. Nothing big, but it was long, and felt solid.

He lifted it as quietly as he could, and blindly ran his hands over it. About fifteen inches long, maybe a little longer. A box wrench, with closed ends, used for dropping over the top of bolts. It wasn't much, but it made him feel somewhat safer.

He clutched the wrench to his chest, closed his eyes, and tried to get his breathing under control.

There was a long banging sound, like a giant switch being thrown. The lights suddenly burst to life, bathing the corridor with blinding intensity. Preston was ever so glad he'd had his eyes closed. In the distance, someone was yelling; no, screeching. A voice echoed over the loud speakers like nails on a chalkboard. Burns might've had the main gallery sound-proofed, but not down here at the third level. The echoes reverberated through the corridor. Preston could barely make out the words of someone ranting into a microphone.

"Your precious Monty Burns, and pilot lackey friend are pinned down in the silo gallery! Come out, little Smithers, come save them if you dare!" The voice gave a shriek of delight, and the speakers cut out.

Preston opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly, afraid he'd see a masked figure standing in front of him. The corridor was clear. In fact, it wasn't even a dead end. He'd hit a wide support stanchion that protruded from the wall by nearly five feet.

Preston pushed himself upright, and cautiously peeked around the stanchion. There was nobody in any direction. However, on the other side of the support was the freight elevator. Preston clipped the radio to his belt and, wrench held like a club at the ready, made his way to the elevator. He cautiously pushed the call button, and waited.

* * *

Smithers and Dimas had made it safely to the sound-proofed electrical room. There, it became quite evident what the problem was. A few cables had been unclamped from the junctions. Or, in simple terms, everything had been unplugged. Smithers scanned the room for signs of intruders. After a brief investigation, he and Dimas sat down on the floor, hauled out an electrical schematic, and began to read. With the amount of electricity flowing through the junction boxes, no good could come from cross wiring anything.

Smithers and Dimas worked soundlessly, without speaking. Smithers wasn't sure what, if anything exactly, he'd ever have to say to Dimas again. The man was not just callous at times, Smithers thought he saw a layer of cruelty as well. It almost seemed as if Dimas had enjoyed berating Preston in the elevator.

Dimas attitude might've merely been the effects of stress, but it made Smithers feel sick inside. At least it distracted him from his own claustrophobia. Side by side, without a single word, they bolted the connections into place.

Finally, the breakers needed to be reset.

Smithers looked at Dimas. Who would go first? Dimas lowered his eyes, and bowed his head. Smithers nodded in understanding. Together, they grabbed the massive two-pole toggle, and working in unison, threw the switch.

Light illuminated the room, and the deep thrum of the ventilation system coming online filled the air. "Let's go," Smithers said, without fanfare. He gestured to the door. "After you, _sir_."

Dimas gave Smithers a weary look, but acquiesced. He shoved the heavy steel door aside, it opened manually from the inside, and stepped into the bright hallway. Up ahead, a shadow detached itself from the wall, and broke into a sprint away from them. A piece of cloth blew off the figure's shoulder as it ran.

"You, stop!" Dimas bellowed, and broke into a run.

The figure looked back, pale face exposed but too far away for Smithers to make out details. It looked oddly familiar. The black-garbed figure ducked around a corner. Dimas, enraged and bellowing, but not closing the distance, thundered after it.

"Wait," Smithers yelled. "Thaddeus, no!"

But it was too late. The man was gone.

Smithers stood alone in the deserted corridor.

Waylon Smithers didn't bother to run after Dimas. He didn't see the point. He walked slowly in the direction the magnate of Plateau City had gone. Dimas had completely ignored the piece of cloth on the floor, but Smithers didn't. Carefully, he bent down and picked it up.

It was a black scarf with the initials E.A.D embroidered on one end.

Smithers wrapped it up, and stuffed it into his shirt. It might yet prove useful.

* * *

Antoine Radson and Charles Montgomery Burns made their way carefully up the stairs. The control room was on the bottom level; the silos on the secondary. "You know," Antoine panted softly, "if we don't get that remote control, we'll be stuck in here forever. How do we know they're even broadcasting from inside this place?"

"Radson, we'll get out of here. Whoever these people are, they're in here as well. Remember, lead-lined? There is no way radio signals of any kind can get out... or in. They're as isolated as we are; and just as trapped."

Antoine was moving slowly. "Well that's a cheery thought," he remarked bitterly.

Burns ignored the sarcasm. "Yes, I thought so too."

They reached the exit into the silo gallery. Burns paused at the door and listened.

"Do you hear anything?"

Burns shook his head.

"Neither do I." Antoine looked up, his normally tan face a ghastly pale. "Is that a good thing?"

Burns put his hand on the release. "I believe, Radson, that we're about to find out." With that, he flung the door open wide.

Row upon row on storage silos sat, but the room seemed oddly empty. There was no firefight, no one was "pinned down." It was eerily quiet, like a tomb. Burns glanced over at Antoine. "Well, boy blue, time to face the music."

"Please don't call me that," Antoine muttered weakly, following Burns towards the center of the gallery.

They slowly made their way forward, Burns' head snapping this way and that, listening for even the faintest sounds. He was beginning to think they were alone, when he heard a faint moaning sound from up ahead. He held a hand up, indicating Antoine to stop.

"What?" Antoine started to whisper, but Burns cut him off. Burns dropped to a crouch, and slowly inched his way forward around the curve of the nearest silo.

Thaddeus Dimas lay between two of the massive concrete silos, spread-eagled on his back. He was breathing heavily, and appeared relatively uninjured. It wasn't readily apparent if he was conscious or not. Antoine started to move forward to help his boss, but Burns held him back. _No,_ Burns mouthed silently. _It's a trap._

Across the room, Burns noticed motion. Smithers, emerging from a stairwell on the other side of the gallery. There was loud clanging sound. Smithers dropped to his knees, Burns shoved Antoine roughly to the ground and whirled about. The freight split doors of the freight elevator yawned open, revealing the interior of the car.

There was a sudden whistling sound. Several crossbow bolts shot in through the open doors, ricocheting around the enclosed space with a metallic twang. The doors stayed open a second longer, then started to close.

A black clad figure, crossbow slung over its back and a turtleneck pulled over its face, sprinted forward, facing the elevator, and took an offensive stance.

The doors rattled shut.

Burns realized he had been holding his breath.

The second thing he realized was this put the shooter directly between him and Smithers.

The shooter was so focused on the elevator that it hadn't seen anyone yet.

Burns made a quick gesture with his hand. Smithers nodded, and rolled behind a silo, out of sight. Burns shoved Antoine down out of the way and peered around the silo. The figure was making its way to the elevator, fumbling with the buttons to open the door.

There was a sudden rush of action, a flash of something silver flying through the air towards the figure. There was a dull thud as the projectile collided with the figure, knocking the person to the ground. A wrench bounced into the shadows.

The crossbow clattered out of reach.

"Now!" yelled Burns.

Smithers leapt up from behind the silo, and sprinted to retrieve the fallen weapon. He almost made it. Almost. With a catlike agility, the black-clothed figure snatched the crossbow and rolled on his back, aiming directly at Smithers heart.

Smithers skidded hit the floor. He slid behind a nearby silo and leaned against it, panting heavily. He'd been close… so close…

"Come out, little man," the figure taunted, voice surprisingly delicate, almost feminine. "I promise I won't hurt you if you make this easy for me."

Dimas appeared to be regaining consciousness.

"Evita," he asked groggily.

"Sparrowhawk," the figure replied, sauntering leisurely over to Dimas, putting a heavy foot on the prone man's neck. "Of course you know me better as _your son_. _Rhodes Teucer Dimas_."

"Rhodes?" Dimas asked, bewildered. He struggled to sit up.

Sparrowhawk, Rhodes, increased the pressure of his boot-heel on Dimas' neck. "No. Stay down." Rhodes Dimas knelt down, expression cold. "You know, I can't believe you. You're supposed to be the man of the house, look out for your family, take care of us. The only person you care about taking care of is you!" Rhodes slapped Dimas once, hard, across the face.

"I wake up every morning, and you're already gone. I have no idea if you're at work or out whoring around. Since I can remember _I'm_ the one who's been looking out for mom. _I_ am the one who has to pick up the pieces of the shattered life _you_ leave behind, and I'm tired of it."

Dimas raised his hands. "Rhodes… son…"

Rhodes slapped Dimas again. "No. _You_ don't get to call me that. I'm not your son. I have no father. As the man of the house, I have to defend my mother's honor. And that starts here, with you."

Rhodes threw off his watch-cap, exposing vivid red hair, clearly dyed. "When I heard you talking about bringing fuel rods here, I knew this would be the perfect way to get rid of you. I tracked your credit card, I bought a ticket, and rented a car. I slipped Missy's collar around that trailer." Rhodes leaned in close to Dimas, lips drawn back in a feral snarl. "You got careless. It was easy. I'm going to enjoy this…"

Rhodes paused and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But you know, I couldn't have done this alone." He raised his head. "Hey, Falcon, come on out!"

Burns sensed motion behind him. He spun about. A broad shouldered teen with a hawk-like countenance strolled out from behind a silo and fixed him with an evil grin.

"Hello, granddad."


	7. Chapter 7

It was a rare moment when Charles Montgomery Burns was ever caught off guard.

This was one of those times.

He stared at the youth, a boy barely into his teens, but broad shouldered, and with a slight paunch. The boy glanced down at Antoine, turned his head, and spat at the ground by Burns feet.

"Who the devil are you?" Burns gasped.

"Aww, you mean you don't recognize me?" The boy gave a contemptuous shrug. "Oh, well I suppose that makes sense. You've never met me before. It must be nice, eh, living in your ivory tower, eating steak and lobster while the rest of your family lives paycheck to paycheck."

Though the youth appeared unarmed, Burns backed up reflexively. He didn't realize how far he'd been herded until he almost stepped on Dimas.

"On the ground."

"Why? You're patently unarmed."

"You wanna bet? I said get on the ground!"

"Best do what he says," Rhodes warned with a chuckle. "Falcon here's a bit of a loose cannon. Hey Falcon, why don't you tell old man Burns here who you are. I don't think he's been able to connect the dots."

Falcon grabbed Burns by the shirt-collar and flung him down. The youth was frighteningly strong. "Franklin Montgomery Burns," he giggled in his high-pitched voice. "Named after two of my ancestors, ironically. Franklin Jefferson Burns… and you." He made a face. "People like you, with your wealth and your power, you're the reason my family's poor! You're the reason my dad works at some shitty souvenir stand while you don't have to work a day in your life!"

"What are you talking about, boy! I work sixty hours a week, and I've never sentenced anyone to work selling brick-a-brack to oddball globetrotters!"

"Oh no? Tell that to your son Larry. He tracked you down, your own flesh and blood your firstborn, only son! And what did you do? You threw him out of your home and out of your life. You broke his heart, and you ruined our family. Have you ever called to ask how we're doing? Have you ever asked if we needed help with bills, or putting food on the table? No! We'd see you on the news, looking all proper, while we ate dinner out of cans."

Franklin took several swaying steps back. "But you know what, gramps? None of that matters now. You see, I'm going to kill you." He casually pulled out a revolver and aimed it at Burns' head.

"Dude, put that away!" hissed Rhodes. "If you crack one of these silos you'll kill us all."

"Hmmm, so much the better," Franklin replied with a shrug. He drew the hammer back. "Say hi to the rest of the family for me…"

There was a primal cry of rage from by the elevator. Smithers lunged from behind a silo, brandishing the recently thrown box wrench like a baseball bat. " _Don't you hurt Mister Burns!_ " he bellowed, raising the wrench above his head.

Franklin was caught off guard. He raised the gun at Smithers. "You again?"

"No," came another voice from the behind a pillar. "Me!"

Preston dove in, arms outstretched. He wasn't entirely sure what his plan was. Distract Franklin? Tackle him? It didn't seem to matter now. His body was fully in the air, arching between Franklin and the incoming Smithers. Time seemed to slow down. It felt like he was suspended in mid-air. He had time to watch the hammer strike the back of a chambered bullet, saw the faint spark as the primer exploded. He watched with a curious sense of detachment. Instantaneously there was a puff of white smoke and a burst of flame from the muzzle. Preston never saw the bullet that hit him, but he felt it as it burrowed its way into his body. Whatever. It didn't matter now. It was all going to be okay in the end. He felt his eyes close. He did not feel his body land.

To Smithers, time couldn't have unfolded faster. Suddenly Preston was between him and Franklin, rushing at the teen, arms outstretched. The gun bucked in Franklin's hand and Preston gave a little twitch in the air, before crashing down beside Antoine.

Franklin's second shot went wide, striking one of the lights, blowing a circuit, and plunging the room into half-darkness.

Preston's act provided all the distraction Smithers needed though. He swung the wrench hard, connecting with Franklin's arms. The teenager cried out as his forearms cracked.

The gun spun out of Franklin's hands.

Burns snatched it up, and pointed it square at Rhodes Teucer Dimas. "You put Franklin up to this!"

Rhodes sneered and unshouldered his crossbow and leveled it at Burns. "So what if I did? That boy was a time-bomb waiting to go off. I simply lit the fuse." Rhodes twitched his head, and gave a little smirk.

Dimas reached up, feebly, and tugged at Rhodes pant-leg. "No, please. Don't do this…"

Rhodes looked down in disgust. "Shut up. Family means nothing to you."

Point-blank, Rhodes Teucer Dimas fired a single bolt into his father's chest, straight through his father's heart. Even in the half-light, there was no way, at that range, he could've missed.

Before he could even load another bolt, there was the sharp crack of a gunshot. Rhodes' crossbow was thrown from his grip, broken in two.

Burns stood tall, holding the revolver steady in both hands. Rhodes tried to scuttle backwards, but Burns shook his head. "I can shoot the spots off an owl at a hundred yards under nothing but starlight and a sliver of crescent moon. Do _not_ try me; boy."

Smithers slid behind Rhodes, and bound the young man's hands tightly with the scarf Rhodes had dropped not so long ago. Smithers realized now why Rhodes face had seemed so familiar: he had Dimas' same face. Thinner, younger, but clearly Rhodes was his father's child.

* * *

Lying on the ground, halfway behind a silo, Antoine Radson felt the warm wetness of blood spread across his hand. Preston.

Antoine reached out with his injured right arm, grasping Preston's hand tightly in his. "You can't die on me, Preppy," he begged. "Come on, open your eyes… please…"

Preston didn't move.

* * *

Waylon Smithers pulled up a chair next to Antoine's hospital bed.

"I wonder how much Burns paid the good old Springfield Police Department to look the other way once they got out there."

Smithers shook his head. "I don't know. I prefer not to think about it."

Antoine rubbed his shoulder. "Yeah, me neither." He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his left hand. "You know, Dimas destroyed his family by his infidelity. I guess he never expected it would catch up with him like that. I mean, who could've ever imagined…" his voice trailed off.

Smithers nodded. "You know, after this, Monty called Larry. For the first time ever, actually. He told Larry what happened."

"How'd Larry take it?"

Smithers shrugged. "They talked for hours, then Monty spoke to his daughter-in-law, and their kids. I think it was good for him."

"What about Franklin?"

Smithers pursed his lips. "Larry said he had too much of Wainwright in him."

"Who?"

"Monty's grandfather. He had a sadistic streak. Or maybe he was just insane. I don't know. He raised Monty, despite the objections of Monty's father and mother. Raised… forcibly adopted…" A cloud passed behind Smithers' eyes. "Brainwashed, maybe." He sighed. "I don't know." Smithers stared at his hands for moment, eyes drifting to the ring on his right hand. "I always want to believe that people are good people deep inside. That there's hope for a brighter future than the days of the past. That somehow, even if someone has a messed up childhood, they still grow up to be alright in the end."

Antoine raised his eyebrows, begging the question.

"I turned alright, didn't I?" asked Smithers hollowly. The fingers of his left hand played absentmindedly with the ring Burns had given him.

Antoine shrugged. "I'm not sure I'm really one to make that call, you know?" Antoine shifted his position and groaned slightly. "I think it's what you feel about yourself."

Smithers smiled sadly. "I want to think I'm a good person."

Antoine nodded. "I think you are."

"I worry about Monty."

Antoine chuckled. "I know. It's pretty obvious. You look out for him. He looks out for you too."

Smithers smiled softly, not able to meet Antoine's eyes.

"But hey, don't worry. Maybe there is a bit of a curse in the Burns bloodline, but people have a choice, you know. This Wainwright you mentioned, or Franklin, well that's them. Larry sounds like a pretty decent guy."

Smithers gave a half-chuckle. "Yeah, he is. He's just a decent, average joe. Goes to work, comes home, tries to do right by his family. He's made a few mistakes, but he's a good guy."

Antoine eyes were half-closed. "What about Monty's father?"

"Clifford?"

"Sure."

Smithers looked out the window, remembering the stories Burns told him about his early childhood. "He was an easy going man, loved his family. A good husband and father. I guess he could get a little over-protective at times, but nobody's perfect, right?"

Antoine's eyes had closed, but his face was peaceful. "So your Monty had a good father, and has a good son. Sounds to me that he'd have to be a good man, somewhere in there, you know." He opened his eyes halfway, and smiled. "Sorry, I'm not trying to fall asleep. Between the morphine and the antibiotics, I feel tired."

"It did turn into a nasty infection, didn't it."

"You probably shouldn't have used my undershirt shirt to pack those holes."

Smithers laughed. "That wasn't me. That was Monty. I just ripped up your shirt."

Antoine raised a hand weakly. "See? He did that, and we both know it. He's a good man, Waylon. And so are you. You complete each other." His head dropped, and a few minutes later Antoine was snoring softly.

Smithers took a deep breath and stood up, sliding his hands in his pockets. It was getting late. It was time to be heading home.

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns looked up from the book he had been reading in his private study. The fire crackled warmly, chasing away the chill of the early winter air. Outside, snow fell softly; big white fluffy flakes against a black velvet night.

"So you're going to fly out east for the weekend?" he asked, shutting the book.

Smithers sat down on the footrest, next to Burns' legs. He laid a gentle hand on Burns' ankle. "I feel like I ought to. See how everyone's doing out there."

"I thought you said you'd never go back to Plateau City."

Smithers blushed. "We say a lot of nevers, don't we, Monty."

Burns leaned forward and cupped Smithers' cheek in his hand. "Don't we though, Waylon," he mused. He ticked of sentences on his fingers. "'Never leave you.' 'Never forget you.' 'Never stop loving you.' Yes, that's at least three right there, and I'm just getting warmed up."

Smithers laughed and straddled Burns' legs. He didn't even know what to say. He agreed completely.

"You're still going away for the weekend though, aren't you."

Smithers shrugged. "I made a promise. I should probably keep it."

Burns nodded. "Yes, you should. Tell that Preston fellow congratulations for me, by the way. Acting CEO of a nuclear power plant in his twenties; now that is quite the accolade, is it not?"

"Indeed. I was talking to him and Antoine last night. He's going to be petitioning the board of trustees. It looks like he very well may be granted the title permanently. He recovered faster than anyone expected. He's eager to take to running the plant full-time."

Burns smiled and steepled his fingers. "That _is_ excellent."

Smithers leaved forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Yes, I thought so too." He stood up and straightened Burns' blanket. "I'm going up to bed. Don't stay up too late, okay."

Burns gave Smithers an innocent shrug. "What can I say? This story's a real page turner."

"It looks like you're almost done."

"Almost."

"Is there an epilogue?"

Burns behind the last chapter. "Well, so there is. Alright, Smithers. I'll be to bed after I finish this last chapter, and the epilogue."

"You promise?"

Burns beamed. "For you? Always."


	8. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_

The prison guard banged his baton against the cell bars.

"Hey Burnsie, hands on the wall."

The inmate threw his magazine down angrily. He stood up and placed his hands on the wall. "What the hell is this about?"

"Looks like you're going to have a new cellmate."

"What? I explicitly said no roommates."

The guard smirked and unlocked the cell door. "Oh did you now? Well that's just a cryin' shame, ain't it. This is Falvelle Prison for the Criminally Brilliant and Insane. It ain't summer camp. Meet your new roomie." He gestured to two other guards. "Bring him in, boys."

A man with unkempt brown hair was shoved rudely into the space. "Unhand me you, brutes."

"Quit yer whining," the guard scoffed.

The newcomer snorted and sat down on the bottom bunk. "Truly, a pack of uncivilized imbeciles. It always amazes me that their pathetic kind seem to remain on the outside of these bars." He began to try and smooth his hair down.

Franklin picked up his magazine. "Who the hell are you?"

"Doctor Robert Underdunk Terwilliger, humble genius, at your service."

"Really? Well you can call me 'unimpressed,' big foot. My name is Franklin Montgomery Burns, and don't you forget it."

"Burns, hmm? Like the rich man in Springfield?" The newcomer's eyes lit up.

Franklin climbed up on to the top bunk and reopened his magazine. "He's my grandfather. I have some unfinished business with him."

"Indeed? Why I too have unfinished business in Springfield. Franklin, I have the feeling this might be the start of a beautiful friendship."


	9. Author's Notes, and Farewell for Now

**Author's Notes:**

Firstly, I want to give a huge shout-out and thankyou to everyone who has read, reviewed, and private messaged me across the interwebz. You people are beautiful, and it's been great getting to know you! I'm grateful for the privilege of being able to entertain you.

Most of my works involve pieces and characters coming together. This one is a darker piece perhaps than some of my others, "Consequences of Fission; Nuclear Decay" focused on the consequences of what happens when relationships are destroyed: when trust is betrayed and hearts are broken. A tale of when things fall apart.

Would Rhodes Teucer Dimas have become a murderer if things had gone differently in his life? Probably not. At least I don't think so.

He was a product of circumstance, and choices.

What happened to him after CoF?

He was convicted, and sentenced to prison. Will he be back? I doubt it. His story is gone and done.

And yet, for many, there is still hope.

Some characters will live beyond these pages though; even if it's just in the hearts and memories of my amazing Readers.

More than a handful of people have asked me, "what does happen with Preston and Antoine?" It seems these two have become little favorites in their own right. We won't even talk about what that does to my ego, lol. To be able to create OCs that excite fandom readers means the world to me.

In world where so many OCs wind up as Mary Sues, Gary Stus, or bland support crew for the canon characters' adventures, I'm beyond delighted that my OCs have sparked imaginations! It was my intent, of course, but fanfic readers can be a tough crowd. We all know the stories, the inside jokes. It can be hard to add new faces that don't detract from the story.

I might write more, or perhaps I'll just sit back and relax for a while. I suppose, deep down, I'm hoping that my characters inspire other authors. Heck, I wouldn't even mind seeing Preston or Antoine, or Franklin Montgomery Burns being used in another setting. I think they're interesting, I like to believe they have depth, and I think they could be further explored.

One of the things I tried very hard to do, in all my pieces, was not create a 'verse that conflicted with other artists' and authors' visions of BurnsSmithers. I wanted to create all my stories to take place in a world that doesn't prohibit characters like Ryan Smithers [(c) Gabrielcic] or Stella Shapiro [(c) MonacoMac] from existing. I know it might sound weird, but I don't like it when fandoms conflict with one another. I want my world to line up with as many others as it can.

The idea that Franklin Burns might escape from my tales and wind up as an antagonist in someone else's work is intoxicating to me. I think he has the potential to become a good recurring antagonist.

Someone asked me about the cover picture. It's a photo I took on one of my travels, of a dead-ended four-lane highway, with a tractor trailer backed up the the overpass. It's a place that always seems eerie as all get-out. Did they simply not finish the highway, did something happen? Who knows. Only the crumbling barriers and trees growing up from the road beyond could say for sure. I thought it made a great cover photo, keeping in theme with this story.

For anyone that wants to see some of my character sketches, the full-sized photo, or my "soundtrack" for NA, WoMH, Unfolding, and CoF, please visit my Deviant Art page. My user name there is ChequeRoot.

* * *

And now, the question that has, apparently been on everyone's mind: **What's the real story between Antoine and Preston?**

Well, regarding those boys… take a walk through this scene with me.

I picture Smithers arriving at LaGuardia, and heading over to the _Little Diva_ ; and I imagine his surprise when he finds Preston in the pilot seat, and Antoine riding copilot. Antoine throws an arm around Preston's neck and ruffles his hair affectionately. "Preppy's a quick study," Antoine remarks proudly.

I see Preston looking rather embarrassed, and proud at the same time. He tries to detach himself from Antoine's arm, remarking that technically, as CEO, it is his chopper now, so it only makes sense he learns how to fly it, and with Antoine being a certified instructor and all... Antoine blushes and coughs behind his hand. Preston and Antoine exchange a meaningful look out of sight of Smithers as he climbs into the passenger compartment. They take off into the afternoon sun, Hudson river reflecting the sky.

I'd say Preston and Antoine live a good life; probably move in together. Antoine's got a good-sized house, four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths. Dimas did pay him well, after all. He might even have an in-ground pool out back. Fancy kitchen he hardly ever uses. Definitely a home theatre man-cave in the basement. Nice yard too. Preston had a small apartment on the southern edge of town. Antoine's home is closer to the plant. With Preston's new title of CEO, and Antoine having more house than he needed, it only made sense to move in together. "He fills the space," Antoine would remark from the living room where he sits with his feet up. He raise his glass, to the reader, and give a nod before taking a sip. Preston, if he heard that would laugh and say they're just friends, nothing more.

At least that's the story they tell anyone who asks. Only Smithers (and possibly I) know for sure; and neither of us is talking.

I think it's safe to say:

 _Whatever you're imagining? Yep, it's that._

* * *

And with that in mind, I think I shall bid everyone a fond farewell for a bit. It's been one heck of a ride through these in-verse years, from Waylon Senior's first day working beside Montgomery Burns to Burns and Waylon Jr's eventual domestic bliss. Sure, there will probably be a few more upsets here and there, but I think this is a good part where I can finally utter those fated words:

And They All Lived Happily Ever After.

The. End.


End file.
